Remembrance of Things Past
by Zendska
Summary: Post XM:FC. Erik and Charles are still together, but the strain of Charles's injury, the threat mutants are under and their divergent ideologies is beginning to tell. Then a young mutant called Madeline shows up needing their help... Erik/Charles.
1. Chapter 1

_**AN:** This is an alternative sequel to the ridiculously brilliant fic When an Unstoppable Force Meets an Immovable Optimist by ToriTC198 - so go read that! S/he's done her own sequel now, Undoing The Damage, which is way way better than mine, so yeah, go read that as well! And then, if you have the time or inclination, give this a go as well and tell me what you think :P_

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Erik watched Charles scowl at the chessboard as he realized that the metal bender had him stymied. Charles obviously thought that this was hardly fair, and it was a bit bizarre – Erik's mind had been elsewhere the entire game, and yet he had somehow serendipitously placed his pieces so as to utterly thwart his lover's carefully thought-out strategy. Charles sighed and knocked his king over.

"I yield. Now please take that distracted look off of your face; it's embarrassing to be beaten by someone who isn't even pretending to pay attention."

Erik shrugged, but couldn't deny that he was on edge. Just that morning, they had discovered an intruder in the mansion, looking for Charles' study. Carrying a gun. A lone nut, Charles had assured him, high on hate propaganda and mescaline – a little mental tweak or two, a long drive and drop-off in a different state, and hopefully the man was even now re-thinking his life, and re-discovering the love of cooking Charles had dug up from beneath the rubble of abuse and drug addiction that had warped his mind.

Erik had wanted to kill him. Nearly had. Still would, if he had the chance.

The threats and hate mail were constant anxieties, but this was the first time anyone with serious intent had got passed Charles' guard. Erik knew it wouldn't be the last. What if it had happened when they were all asleep? Or when Erik was away on a mission? Who would be there to protect Charles then?

_Stop it._ Charles' voice sounded gently in his head, projecting calm and comfort. _I'm fine._

_This time_, Erik responded stubbornly. _What will it take for you to admit we're under siege? The humans will never accept us…_

The thought trailed off as Charles shook his head wearily. Erik didn't want to have the same old fight any more than he did, so let it lie for now. Charles looked tired, and whatever he said, Erik knew the attack had shaken him too. Erik was just about to suggest bed when a tiny crunch of gravel outside the window drew him sharply to his feet. Charles' fingers went instantly to his temple, scanning for the intruder's consciousness, but Erik was already out of the door, slinking through the grounds to the source of the sound, prepared to fight. He saw a shadowy figure standing next to the study window, outlined in the firelight spilling between the heavy curtains. Stealthily, Erik encouraged the wire frame away from the sagging wisteria it held to the mansion wall, wound it around the stranger's ankles, then pulled it tight. The woman – for it was a woman – cried out in alarm, fell to the ground, and skidded forwards at Erik's gesture. He stepped on one flailing, leather-clad arm and knelt on the other, seizing her by the throat –

_Erik, STOP. She's one of us._

He released the girl's neck, looked into her frightened green eyes. She was young, perhaps not 20, with thick, dark, dirty hair and strong features. Where her top had rucked up in her slide across the gravel, he saw she was also heavily scarred.

"What are you doing here?" He demanded, not releasing her arms. She gulped, but her gaze didn't falter.

"I'm looking for Charles Xavier. I need his help."

Erik escorted her to the study, still wary and suspicious. But Charles was waiting behind his desk with a welcoming smile for the stranger.

"Charles Xavier, pleasure to meet you. I'm so sorry about your reception – we've had a bit of a contretemps here today, so everyone's a little bit tense. Please do sit down."

The girl cast an apprehensive look at Erik and then sat gingerly in the Chesterfield chair Charles indicated, as if still deciding whether to stay or make a run for it. Charles nodded at her encouragingly, and slowly, she relaxed into her seat.

"I'm sorry if I alarmed anybody. I shouldn't have come so late, but I needed to travel by night, and then I got lost and-"

"Who are you hiding from?" asked Magneto– that was how Charles thought of him when he looked and sounded like this, as Magneto, hard, cold and hostile, not Erik, the gentle, passionate and tender man he could allow himself to be only in private, only with Charles. The girl flinched at his tone, but turned to answer him.

"At the moment? Pretty much everyone." She looked surprised when this elicited a nod of quiet approval from the metal bender. He stopped standing as if on guard next to the door, and sat down discretely in an armchair by the fire, picked up the whiskey he had been drinking before they were interrupted. Charles reclaimed her attention with a gentle cough.

"You've come to the right place then. We aim to make this school a sanctuary for any of our kind – for all mutants. That is why you're here, isn't it?" She nodded. "Good. Well let me assure you that you are safe here, and you can stay for as long as you want – and no longer. No-one will harm you, and none of us would ever betray you. We're a family here, and you're more than welcome to be part of it. However," Charles continued, "if we're to be family, we have to try and trust each other. And I have an obligation to protect my students. Now, you don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to; but if you're in some kind of trouble, or if you have somebody after you, the more I know then the better I can keep them – and you – safe."

There was a moment of conflict and suspicion in her eyes.

"I heard that you can – read minds. That you can just look at someone and know everything about them." Charles chuckled modestly.

"Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but more or less correct. However, I don't consider it polite to do that without permission, so I only use that power when absolutely necessary. Usually people prefer to tell me what I need to know themselves." The girl looked relieved, but nervous.

"It's kind of an unbelievable story," she said, then smiled. "But I'm guessing you've heard quite a few of those."

"More than you can possibly imagine," Charles agreed. "As you say, I'm a man who reads minds. Mr Lensherr over there can manipulate metal." The girl rubbed her arm and looked balefully at Erik.

"Yeah, no kidding," she muttered. Charles smiled placatingly, and leaned forward.

"What I'm trying to say is, you're not the only one with special gifts. I promise, I'll believe what you tell me." He lifted a crystal brandy decanter from the desk and quirked an eyebrow. "Drink?" She hesitated a moment, and then seemed to reach a decision and nodded. He poured her a large glassful and one for himself, watched expectantly as she gulped it down, grimaced at the burn of the strong spirit, then began.

"I guess the story started before I was born – when my big sister Jessica got sick.

She had leukaemia, a really nasty kind, from when she was a baby. My parents were desperate to help her, but nothing worked. The doctors said that her best chance of survival was bone marrow transplant from a sibling, so they got to work on me."

The girl paused, a look of confusion crossing her face.

"I know they weren't bad people. They couldn't have been, because they loved her so, so much. They would have done anything to help her. They bankrupted themselves for years trying to get her treated. I hate to think the things they had to do." She looked down into her lap. "I think maybe they loved Jessie so much there wasn't any room left in their hearts; or maybe it was just that they never saw me as a child, not really. I was – I was _supposed _to be – a cure."

Here she seemed to run out of words; Charles reached across the desk and touched her hand, where it still rested on the brandy glass. She looked up at him, and he waggled his other hand by her temple and asked "may I?" She looked wary, but nodded her assent.

Charles reached out tentatively to her mind, and was immediately rocked by a wave of loneliness, grief, and neglect. He saw the dirty clothes, the unwashed hair, the unloved, unhugged, unnoticed little girl standing in the doorway of hospital room after hospital room while her parents crooned over her sick sister; the carefully controlled diet to keep her healthy, the regular weigh-ins, the angry scolding when she was too light, too heavy, when she got a cold. Tears started in his eyes, and he withdrew, keeping his hand on hers.

"You poor, poor girl. I'm so sorry. And your sister?" The girl looked up, her eyes brightening a little.

"You'd think she'd be a monster, wouldn't you? All that love for her and none for me. You'd think she would have treated me like they did. But she didn't; she loved me. We loved each other. She was the only thing-" but there she broke off. Charles understood. Although he had had everything he'd wanted materially, he had never been given any parental affection or attention either. If it hadn't been for Raven coming along when she did, he didn't like to think about what his life might have been.

"So you have to understand, I _wanted_ to help her. I wasn't afraid of the surgery or anything like that. But the doctors said that I wasn't a close enough match. It had always been a long shot – 1 in 4 or something. They said that the chances of bone marrow rejection were too high, that the risk to me was too great to balance the possible benefit to Jessica. Anyway, by that time, the cancer was eating her up. It was in her kidneys, her lung, her liver. One transplant, maybe two, they might have considered, _if _I'd been a perfect match, but four? They told my parents they were very sorry, but that they should prepare themselves to lose their daughter.

"My mother was beside herself. I remember her picking me up and thrusting me at the doctors, screaming. 'Just take whatever she needs!' she yelled. 'It's all right here! It's what she's _for_!'" She paused, gulped. "I was five.

"But they wouldn't change their minds. Jessie got sicker and sicker. Now I was no use to them at all, my parents ignored me almost completely – I preferred it when they did. It was better than when they blamed me, said it was all my fault, that I should never have been born. I felt responsible."

Xavier shook his head. "Madeline, none of this is your fault." She looked up sharply.

"How did you know my-" she broke off. "Oh. Duh." A ghost of a smile.

"That's when they got the call from Dr Fiskel.

"He had worked for Trask Industries in biochemistry, before going into private practice as an oncologist. Somehow he had got hold of my medical records, blood tests, DNA. He had spotted something that my other doctors hadn't, because he knew where to look: he spotted the mutant x-gene.

"He promised to perform the surgery the hospital had forbidden – four simultaneous transplants, kidney, lung, liver, bone marrow – at his private facility in Omaha. He wouldn't even charge a penny. It all seemed too good to be true. He flew us out by private jet, hired a nurse for Jessica, the works. My mother was – so happy. I'd never seen her like that before; she even hugged me once, when my ears hurt on the plane and I couldn't stop crying. I remember thinking that maybe, if I could make Jessie well, she would always be like this. And it would all be worth it; we'd be a real family.

"I remember I got scared when the anaesthetist came in, with that black mask. I started crying. Dr Fiskel came over and looked down at me, and he said: 'Don't you want to help your sister?' and turned my face to look at her. She was unconscious, had been for several days. She had tubes in her everywhere, and she was so pale and thin and bald. I did want to help her, so I said yes, and let them put the mask over my face.

"When I woke up three days later, I felt – terrible. I never felt so sick in my whole life. Everything ached, I had tubes in my nose, my mouth, I couldn't move or talk. But Jessie was awake; she was sitting up in bed, brushing her dolly's hair. She looked so different. Her eyes were bright, she'd put on weight, she jumped down off the bed and ran to me like any normal six year old, and when she kissed me on the head, that sick smell she had always had was gone."

A smile broke out over Madeline's face, unforced but tinged with sadness. "I had finally fulfilled my purpose – I had saved my sister's life."

Xavier was frowning, perplexed. "Receiving four transplants is an incredibly gruelling experience. She shouldn't have been out of bed for months. How did she get better so quickly?"

Madeline nodded. "I know. This is where it starts getting unbelievable.

"Jessie had had my right kidney, part of my liver, a bit of lung, my bone marrow. Any one or all of those could have been rejected, or rejected her. But instead, they took immediately – and then the cells in them started attacking the leukaemia within an hour of surgery. It cured her cancer, healed all the damage it had done to her. It was impossible, but it happened. And that wasn't even the weirdest thing.

"I was very sick for a week. They didn't think I was going to make it. But then the organs they had cut out of me – grew back."

"Good lord."

She looked at the young professor's astonished expression and nodded sardonically. "I know, right? I'm a 'medical miracle'. Or, to put it more simply, I'm a mutant." A bitter cast came over her expression. "Which is, of course, why Fiskel wanted me.

"That was the kicker, the hidden cost of all his free help. After the surgery, he wanted me – or whatever was left of me – for his research. I don't think he'd expected me to live – or Jessie either, if I think about it. He was floored by the success of his experiment, the possibilities my mutation opened up. He even gave my parents some money – they needed it, after everything they had spent trying to keep Jessie alive all this time. I think he gave them five thousand dollars."

"And they left you with him." It wasn't a question. Madeline jumped. Charles hadn't noticed Erik's silent approach. His hands were now clamped on the back of the girl's chair, squeezing the chubby leather until it squeaked.

"Erik." It wasn't a warning, as such. But that one word, and the look of reproach from the telepath, sent him striding back to the fireplace, his face a mask of barely controlled fury. Charles squeezed her hand. "What happened, Madeline?"

"Jessie didn't make it easy for them. She had insisted on staying in the same room as me – she wanted to look after me, the way I had looked after her. So when our parents came to take her away but not me, she wanted to know why. They told her I was still sick, and would have to stay a little while longer.

"'How MUCH longer?' she whined. 'Why can't she come home with us, or why can't we stay here with her?' When they wouldn't answer her, she began to cry. I think we both knew something wasn't right – our parents should have been so happy, but they both looked scared. They had to drag us apart, carry Jess out of the room, still screaming. That was the last time I saw my sister. Or any of my family. After that, there was only Fiskel."

At some point, tears had started streaming down the girl's cheeks. She pushed them impatiently away. Charles winced, unable to block out the waves of pain.

"If you want to leave it there, we can carry this on another time. You must be tired-" she shook her head vehemently.

"I'd rather get it said and done, if you don't mind. I just haven't thought about that day in a long while. I didn't know it would still hurt this much. That was the worst. The rest is – not as bad." She took a deep, shuddering breath, then met his gaze unflinchingly and continued.

"Like I said, the success of his experiment gave Fiskel some ideas. The main reason he left Trask Industries is because of the organisation's fixation on killing mutants. Fiskel was an opportunist, not an ideologue. He thought there was more profit to be had by exploiting mutants rather than destroying them.

"He never did figure out how my blood could do what it can do, but he didn't need to in order to make money out of it. Because my organs regenerated so fast, he could perform transplants up to five times a month – that's five terminally ill, very rich patients desperate for a miracle. They didn't ask questions – just paid whatever price Fiskel demanded. Money, favours, assassinations. He saved a lot of rich men's lives, and became a rich and powerful man himself by selling me, though most people have never heard of him. And nobody has ever heard of me. I'm actually legally dead – I died aged five, on the operating table, according to the public record. Some days, in the last thirteen years, I've really wished I had."

She stood up, lifted her shirt, turned slowly round to display uncountable scars all over her torso, front and back. "He'd do all the operations himself - livers, lungs, kidneys, bone marrow – he even took a valve of my heart once; I was on bypass for three days while that grew back. All those donations kept me weak – I'd wake up with new scars and barely any blood, spend a few days recovering, and then another operation. I could barely get out of bed most of the time." She spread her hands out on the desk, and for the first time Charles noticed she was missing a little finger.

"Another little experiment of his. He wanted to see if that would grow back too. As you can see, it didn't. At least it's only my left hand." Charles shuddered, covered the maimed hand with his own again.

"How did you get away?" he queried softly. She sat back down and sighed.

"I guess he got greedy. It's funny, isn't it, how the more people have, the more they want? About six months ago, he tried to do two liver transplants back-to-back – didn't give me enough time between them to recover. I started to haemorrhage on the table, and he nearly lost me. I had to have a massive blood transfusion. But when I woke up, I felt – different. Stronger. Stronger than I'd felt in years. There was a night nurse theoretically standing guard over me, but I don't think anyone was expecting me to try and escape, not after all those years, not after such a major operation. They certainly weren't expecting me to fight." Charles absorbed the glimmer of savage satisfaction, and a sudden image of the back of the night nurse's peroxide perm, the scalpel descending.

"Since then, I've pretty much been on the move. I know he's been looking for me. I've had to run a couple of times. But mostly I've been hiding. There are so many homeless teenage girls out there – who'd notice one more? I thought about going to find my family – I went back to where we used to live - but I'm pretty sure they think I'm dead. My sister, Jessie-" her voice broke for a moment, then she smiled weakly. "She's still well, better than well. She swims for our state. They've got their eye on her for the Olympic team. I read an interview with her in the local paper, and she said that she owes everything to her little sister, who died from complications after donating her a kidney. I don't know if that's what my parents told her, or what Fiskel told them. But if they know where I am, I wouldn't put it past them to turn me over to him, and I don't know how to get in touch with Jessie without tipping them off. She's probably better off out of all this anyway. I saw her, from a distance, and she seems – happy." A longing, faraway look came over her, then she shook it off.

"So then I heard about this place. A school for people who are – different. I mean, I know I can't fly or read minds or bend metal or whatever, but I know that I have the same thing you all have, this mutant x-gene. Fiskel used to go on about it, how only he appreciated 'the beauty and the potentiality of the mutant x-gene.' He liked the sound of his own voice. Among other things." A shadow passed over her face and was gone. She shrugged. "So I figured, what have I got to lose? At least other freaks like me aren't going to throw me in the nut-house, which is sure as damnit what would happen if I went to the police." The way her manner kept changing was strange – it was as if she didn't quite know how to talk naturally, and so assumed a character depending on what she needed to say. Charles supposed that would be the result of spending most of your formative years with nothing but the TV for company. He could see her now struggling to slouch, to give the impression of the careless tough case. But then the pose fell away, and she leaned forward earnestly.

"Listen - I'm not a bad person, you know? Fiskel is a creep, but he was right about one thing – I know I have a special gift, and I do want to use it to help people. I just need a chance to figure out how to do that without becoming somebody's lab rat. Please, can you help me?"

Charles gave a heavy sigh, and leant across the desk to look into her eyes.

"You've been incredibly selfless, resourceful and brave. I am honoured that you chose to come to me, and I solemnly promise you, we can protect you." She looked doubtful.

"I don't want to put anyone else in danger, or bring any trouble down on you or your students. I told you, this guy has a lot of money, and powerful friends."

Charles smiled cockily. "Well, now, so do you my dear. Welcome to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters."

Now, if you'll excuse me for saying so," Charles said, "you look done in. I'll ask someone to show you to a room – I'm sure you'd feel better for a bath and a good night's kip." Her face lit up.

"I've never had a bath before. I've seen them on the TV though – they look like fun." Charles' heart hurt a little when he thought how much of life this girl had missed out on, how unfairly, just because she had been born different. The clock said it was a little past three AM. He made a quick scan of the mansion and then called out mentally for Raven who was still awake, lifting weights down in the gym.

"My sister's coming to show you the way. While I've got you here, do you mind if I ask – is there anything else we ought to know about your abilities?" Her eyes took on that guarded look again, and he hastened to reassure her.

"I only ask because so many of our students have powers that are still developing, or that they aren't used to using around others – I just like to know what I'm dealing with, as a safety precaution. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, and I would never pry." She relaxed slightly.

"There's nothing else, really. I mean, I seem to have a photographic memory, and I've got a pretty wicked sense of smell – but that could just be normal, right? A lot of other people have those too." She surprised him then with an impish smile, reminding him how young she was. "Certainly nothing as weird as magic blood."

He laughed. "Certainly not. Ah, Raven!" He watched Madeline _almost _double-take as Raven walked into the room, naked but for a towel round her neck, blue as a harvest sky. Then the girl stood up, squared her shoulders, and offered her hand.

"Hi, you're the professor's sister, right? I'm Madeline. Good to meet you." Raven was now the one discomfited, so used to strangers being intimidated by her unusual appearance. She belatedly accepted the proffered hand. Charles did his best to hide his smile.

"Raven, Madeline will be staying with us for a while. Could you take her to one of the guest rooms please, and show her how to run the bath – you know what the plumbing in this old place is like." Raven nodded, still thrown, and indicated Madeline to follow her.

"This way."

At the door, Madeline stopped and turned back.

"I'm not very good at trusting people; but I really want to trust you. You seem like a good man. Thank you professor – thanks all of you – for taking me into your home."

"You're very welcome here, my dear. And please do call me Charles. Good night." As the door shut behind the two women, Charles finally turned to meet Erik's gaze. He'd been trying to ignore the tumult in the other man's emotions, trying to give Madeline's story the attention and respect that it deserved, but now he had to address it. "Alright Erik, alright, I know you're excited but please, calm your mind – I'm starting to get a headache." The German leapt to his feet, began striding back and forth across the carpet in front of the desk, trying and utterly failing to contain himself. The pacing itself showed how much he was forgetting himself in his eagerness. It was an old habit of nervous energy, one he had trained himself out of after Charles's injury, as it felt almost like taunting his lover with what he could no longer do.

"Charles, you must realise what this might mean for you!" Charles rolled his eyes.

"Well yes, not being utterly dense, of course I realise. And even if I hadn't, the fact your brain has been practically shouting it for the last half hour would make it pretty impossible to miss!" Erik ignored the peevish tone. He dropped down on his knees beside Charles's chair, and gave his lover a smacking, impulsive kiss on the forehead.

"We have to wake up Beast. We have to get some of her blood to him, get him to analyse it, see what it can do, what it could do for yo-" Charles put a gentle hand over his mouth, silencing him.

"My friend. Calm. Your mind. For one thing, we don't even know if it would work. For another, we are not going to talk to Hank. We're not going to tell anyone about Madeline's gift. Not yet." Erik's exuberance collapsed into confusion.

"But _why_?" Charles put a comforting hand on the side of Erik's neck, thumbed his earlobe fondly.

"That you of all men have to ask me that proves you're not thinking clearly, my love. I know this is an exciting development. Believe me, I'm very excited too. But you heard that girl. She's been used and taken advantage of her entire life. She's been a 'lab rat' these past thirteen years. She's desperate, and she's turned to us for help. How do you think she's going to feel if the first thing we want to do is use her blood? I'm not going to do that to her, Erik. She's been through quite enough." Erik's face crumpled in disappointment. His eyes dropped to the carpet.

"What if her blood's your only hope?" Charles rubbed his shoulder affectionately, and then tilted Erik's chin upwards so he could look into the older man's eyes.

"Well that's one hope more than I had this time this morning, isn't it? I'm not saying never. I'm just saying not now. Let her rest. Let her heal. Let her learn to trust again, to hope. In time, she may be ready to give of herself again, voluntarily. She's had so much taken away from her already. She deserves to have that time, that choice." Erik couldn't repress the thoughts that snapped back, born of his guilt and his fear.

_What about everything that's been taken away from you? From us? What if she says no? What if she slips away from here tonight and we never see or hear from her again?_

Charles sighed, and pulled his lover to him in a tight, awkward embrace.

"Then that is just what's meant to be. And if I never walk again, I'm _still_ one of the luckiest men alive. After all, I've got you." He sought to convince himself of the truth of these words, to quell the unworthy feelings this maelstrom had woken in his heart, to believe that everything would happen for the best. To believe that whatever happened or didn't happen, Erik would stay by his side. Erik sighed against his shoulder, letting the moment go – for now.

_Only _one_ of the luckiest men? _He thought at Charles, with a touch of strained levity in his tone. Charles chuckled, patting him on the back.

_Well obviously not as lucky as you, my love. After all, you've got _me_! _Erik snorted, sat back on his heels and smiled that wolfish smile than never failed to tug at Charles's heart.

"I do, don't I? Come on, professor – it's so late it's practically early, and you're exhausted. Let's go to bed."


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: Time to get to know this new character! This is going to be very much an ensemble piece, with POVs from everyone, but here's a chance to get behind Madeline's eyes.**_

Madeline followed the blue woman up a vast flight of stairs, and through a maze of seemingly endless corridors. She could feel the knowledge of their route – left, left, right, three feet then left again – tattooing itself onto her mind, along with every word that had been said in Xavier's office, the professor's kind eyes, every book that had been on the shelf behind him, the precise quantity of whiskey that had been left in the other man's glass. Her brain was always doing this, and seemed to have an inexhaustible capacity for detail – every song she'd ever heard or book she'd read, every crack in every ceiling she'd stared up at, every scar and every operation. She must still be a bit on edge, as normally she wouldn't even notice herself doing it, any more than she'd really pay attention to the volume of olfactory information her powerful sense of smell was taking in – the scents of old dry wood and cool marble, the meaty odour of sleeping young male bodies as they passed down one corridor, and the fruity hint of young women along another. The blue woman had a fragrance she'd never smelled anything like before, musky, almost spicy, intensified by her work-out. Madeline could have followed her with her eyes shut, and she practically did – she was so very, very tired. She'd taken the brandy because that seemed polite and it had smelled so good, but she had never drunk alcohol before, and its effect on her already exhausted young body was pronounced. She almost missed what Raven said when she spoke to her at last, but a quick rummage in her trusty memory brought up the – question, statement, challenge? – that the mutant had fired at her.

"You're very self-possessed. Most people at least stare a little." It took a moment for Maddy to process what she meant. Then she realised.

"Well, I haven't spent much time around people. And I've watched a lot of Star Trek over the years. Who am I to say what you ought to look like?" Raven didn't seem to know whether to be mollified or insulted by this. "Anyway," Maddy continued, trying to quell a yawn, "I think you look completely cool." Raven seemed to decide to take the compliment, and a gleaming white smile split her azure face. Maddy tipped her head to one side, considering.

"It can't have been easy for you though, growing up like that out in the world. It must have been difficult sometimes." A shadow chased the smile from the blue girl's face, but then she shook her head decisively.

"It could have been much worse. Since I was a little girl, I had Charles; he protected me. And anyway, I've got certain-" a flicker of flesh, and Maddy was looking at her own (rather dirty) face as if in a mirror, hearing her own voice finish: "-talents." Her sleepy eyes grew wide, and Raven – looking satisfied with the impression she had made – slipped seamlessly into her own skin.

"SO cool," breathed Maddy admiringly, provoking another dazzling smile.

"Just call me Mystique!" Raven said brightly. Maddy felt that she had passed some kind of test.

She followed 'Mystique' into the biggest room she'd ever seen in her whole life. The professor's sister – although Maddy was less sure about that now, they didn't smell at all related – then opened the door to the en-suite bathroom, and twiddled with brass taps until a steady stream of hot water was rushing down into the claw-footed tub.

"You can add more cold in if you want to," Raven said, indicating the cold tap. "Personally I like to boil myself, but not everyone does." She opened a cupboard and handed Maddy a bottle of bubble-bath. Maddy tentatively unscrewed the cap, and was almost knocked over by the heady scent of jasmine. Raven screwed up her face.

"Don't you like it? It is a bit dowager duchess, as Charles would say, but I don't think there's anything else-" Maddy shook her head vehemently.

"No, no, I like it – I like it a lot. It's just – so much." Raven looked a bit nonplussed; she couldn't be expected to know, after all, that the only times Maddy had washed before had been in a steel shower cubicle with supposedly 'scentless' surgical soap. It did have a scent to Madeline, of course – a chemical, dead sort of smell – but nothing overpowering, like this. She tipped the liquid excitedly into the stream of water, accidentally decanting half the bottle and producing drifting icebergs of bubbles that threated to topple over the rolled sides of the tub. Raven smiled indulgently.

"I'll leave you to it. There are towels on the rail, and a robe on the hook there." She turned back at the door and warned: "You look exhausted – make sure you don't fall asleep in there." And with that, the blue woman was gone.

Madeline slipped out of her filthy clothes, pulled out of a trash can behind a thrift store on the night of her escape and worn for months for want of anything else. As she sank her scarred, grimy body blissfully into the flowery steam, she reflected that she had never really felt clean before – only 'hygienic'. She rinsed her thick dark hair until it squeaked, and only reluctantly left the bathroom when, in spite of Mystique's warning, she dozed off, slipped beneath the surface of the cooling water, and woke up gasping and coughing explosively. _Definitely time to sleep_, she decided, gave herself a cursory swipe with a towel of awesome size and fluffiness, then slipped naked between the sheets of the intimidatingly huge bed.

She lay there staring at the ceiling for a moment, running over in her mind all the reasons she shouldn't feel as safe and relaxed as she did. The professor had seemed like a good guy; and Maddy already felt a genuine liking for his unusual 'sister'. But she couldn't forget that he and she – that all of the people here – were powerful in ways she didn't know or understand, more powerful even than Fiskel was, and she didn't really know what they wanted or why they were helping her. And even leaving that aside, the other man – Erik Lensherr – was clearly just out-and-out dangerous. You didn't need to be a mind reader to detect the predator in him, the fury, the potential for destruction – and the fear. For all his power, the stink of fear had rolled off him when he had attacked her in the garden. She didn't want to know what kind of peril could make a man like that afraid. Xavier had promised that they could protect her. If that was true, why was his friend so scared?

In spite of all these worries, her treacherous eyelids were slipping down. The soft bed, the brandy, the hot bath, days on the run with barely any sleep or food, all ganged up on her, forcing her into a sleep so deep that even her nightmares could not follow her there.


	3. Chapter 3

Erik didn't sleep that night. He tried; he curled his long limbs around Charles, buried his face in the telepath's neck, and tried to let the smell of him, the feel of him, the soft sounds he made while he slept, work their usual magic and soothe Erik into a deep, dreamless sleep. But this once, the spell refused to come over him, and he lay at last on his back in a spreading pool of grey dawn light, trying to stop his thoughts from revolving on the blood of that girl, asleep somewhere in the big house.

The blessing of dreamless sleep was only one of too many Erik had to be grateful to Charles for, although this at least was a reciprocal gift. Charles's nightmares had once driven him to the furthest corner of the mansion, to protect others from the violence of his remembered childhood terrors being unintentionally projected into their minds. Erik's dreamscape had its own collection of horrors, old and new – his thin, terrified mother being shot, even whilst she whispered _"Alles ist gut." _Saws, scalpels, syringes, a pair of half-moon spectacles getting closer and closer. Charles's scream in Shaw's frozen mouth, Charles's blood on Erik's hands. But when they slept together, they both seemed to be immune from these attacks. Charles had once joked, "Perhaps my demons are off somewhere fighting with yours, letting us get some rest."

Erik smiled in spite of himself remembering that – then his face resolved into the frown that was fast becoming habitual. Charles had new demons since he had been hurt – fear of being trapped; fear of being left behind. He hid them well, knowing that however they might torment him, knowing about them hurt Erik much worse. But no-one who had known and loved the confident, cavalier young man that Charles had been before he was crippled could fail to see the new anxiety, the caution with which he now faced change, the new habit of 'checking in' with people for no real reason. And Erik could do nothing for him, not least because Charles refused to acknowledge how he had changed. His sadness and his stubborn denial of it made Erik feel so helpless, and feeling helpless made him furious. But his fury had nowhere else to fall but back in on itself, for who but he was to blame for Charles's condition?

Which thought brought him back to where he had started – to the mystery of Madeline's blood, the blood that just might hold the key to Charles's former life. The life they could have had together, if Erik had been able to forget his hate, to override his fear and anger, to be the better man.

Charles had insisted that they wait, and Erik had eventually agreed, but he wasn't sure even now if he truly could. Every fibre of his being was itching to leap out of bed, to go and find the girl and get things _moving_, to get Beast analysing her DNA, to get him working on a cure for Charles.

In the back of his mind he knew he was already far too invested in this possibility. Although the girl had called it 'magic blood', he wasn't a child – he knew there was no such thing as magic or miracles, only biology, and however advanced or astonishing her mutation might be, it would have its limitations. They'd already seen that her gift hadn't helped her finger grow back. Even if he could get her strapped to a gurney, it might all prove to be a waste of ti-

_Strapped to a gurney. _Even as he heard himself think it, a wave of self-hatred crashed over him, disgust at hearing Shaw inside his head. She was a mutant like him - his sister; exploiting her power by force went against every principle he held. But somehow, when it came to Charles, Erik's usually adamantine sense of who he was and what he had to do got tangled up, lost in the way Charles saw him and the way he felt he had to be for Charles. How else explain why he was still here, taking in mutant kids and hiding them instead of going out to fight for them? Still here, trying to be 'a better man', still trying to earn the acceptance of a species he was so clearly meant by nature to replace? Still, this was the first time that his love of Charles seemed likely to make him _worse _than he was.

He looked over at Charles's sleeping form, trying to keep a lid on his inner tumult for fear of waking him. He sprang up suddenly, needing to walk, to run, to do anything other than sit here stewing. He dressed quickly in sweats and sneakers, planning to run a few laps around the grounds. His heart was hurting as he walked away, and he knew already exercise wouldn't help, training wouldn't help, nothing would help except _talking to Charles_ – but knew as well that he couldn't do that, because the Charles he needed to talk to was the Charles before that day on a Cuban beach, the Charles with an unshakeable faith in Erik, and in himself. Charles before he had been broken, betrayed.

* * *

Maddy had stayed inside her room until quite late into the morning, not really knowing what else she should do. When it became apparent no-one was going to come for her until she indicated she was ready, she put on her borrowed dressing gown and crept into the hallway. She felt ridiculous, sneaking around in a towelling robe, but she couldn't quite bring herself to put back on the clothes she had arrived in, and she had nothing else. The upper floors were surprisingly quiet – she had identified at least twenty students' scents walking past the sleeping quarters last night. Everyone must already be in class, she thought, and suddenly, it occurred to her that she could _learn _here.

She'd always so wanted to go to school. Mostly just to speak to somebody, anybody, her own age. But over time, the yearning to know more became an end in itself. She felt there must be so much more to know than she could grasp looking through the narrow window of the TV, that was her only link to the world outside Fiskel's facility. She begged to go to school, or if not that just to have a tutor, some books, anything _more_. Fiskel had given her a few trash paperbacks, with an air of magnanimity that had made her itch to strangle him. But when she had asked for some _real _books, he had just shaken his head and said "I fail to see the profit in that, Madeline."

He wasn't _cruel_, as such, that was the infuriating thing. He could be quite indulgent towards her, giving her little gifts and showing her the sort of careless kindness dispensed to a pet, as long as it cost him nothing. He had no animus to her at all; she was of value to him, as simple as that, and he had the power to use her as he liked.

"_Now Madeline, we can do this the easy way or the hard way; so let's not waste each other's time, shall we?"_

He was a pragmatist and an opportunist, not a brute, and he always used exactly as much coercion as was required to extract her co-operation – and no more. When he cut off her finger, it had not been in a fit of sadism, but in the detached spirit of scientific enquiry. Somehow, that had made it even more chilling.

"_A shame; there's a market for body parts."_

She realised she was standing on the stairs wringing her hands; her body was trembling all over.

_It's over_, she told herself, rubbing her upper arms briskly as if to shake herself. _No-one's ever going to cut you again. _But even as she said it, she knew it would be a long time, if at all, before he would disappear from behind her eyes, before his voice stopped sounding in her mind, telling her she was a 'fascinating anomaly'; a 'rich resource'; not a person; not Madeline.

She took a deep breath and continued down the stairs, steadying herself against the banister. She heard the sound of voices behind one large oaken door, and turned away instinctively, making for what turned out to be an empty kitchen. She opened cupboard after cupboard, stared at strange packets and tins, not knowing where to start. She hadn't been in a kitchen since she was five; every meal she had had since then had been delivered on a plastic tray, or straight into her veins, nutritionally balanced and utterly unvarying. More recently, she'd scavenged what she could from garbage cans and abandoned tables at fast-food courts. The concept of _choice _was alien to her.

Somebody was approaching suddenly, their shadow on the frosted glass of the window. Too late to run. She froze instead, pulling the gown around her, the nearest strange packet clutched to her chest.

The man from last night, Lensherr, barrelled in, panting roughly. He was wearing a light grey tracksuit, stained charcoal with sweat. He leant over the sink, drank deeply straight from the faucet, then leapt practically out of his skin when he realised he wasn't alone.

"_Sheisse_!" he yelped, then clapped a hand over his mouth. His obvious discomfiture paradoxically helped Maddy to relax. She loosened her grip on the unknown packet, and essayed a smile.

"Hello. Did you sleep well?"

It seemed this was the wrong thing to have said. He stared at her, barked out a bitter laugh, then wiped his face on the sleeve of his sweater.

"Where are your clothes?" he asked, a propos nothing at all. She blushed.

"To be honest, they're kind of gross. I was wondering if someone could lend me something, until I can wash them…" She felt stunningly awkward with this man, but she was also starting to get mad. The way he looked at her, as if she pissed him off just by being alive… OK, she had no real right to be here, but if the professor was happy to have her, why should this guy have a problem with that? She was about to walk away (although she had no idea where to) when something in his face suddenly gave. He pointed at the packet in her hand.

"You want some coffee?" She nodded, mainly for something to do – she'd never been allowed coffee before, had smelt it on the breath of anaesthetists as they leaned over her, mixed with the smell of rubber gloves and gas. She had no idea whether she liked it.

The man Erik took the packet out of her hand, then set to work preparing the beverage. It seemed to be a complex procedure, involving a strange-shaped metal pot, a lot of mess and a certain amount of cursing – a lot more effort than the resultant tiny cup of bitter black liquid warranted, in her opinion. She choked it down to be polite, and almost immediately got a headache. _So, no to coffee then_, she thought, thinking how much she still had to find out.

Now he was no longer looking at her as if he wished she'd fall through the floor, she found this Lensherr OK company. He didn't speak just for the sake of it, just a terse "Milk? Sugar?" at the appropriate juncture. He got on with his own breakfast, and when he noticed her gazing at them, thrust a plate of waffles towards her without comment. He didn't stare or ask questions. He just ate, drained his coffee, and left as abruptly as he had come. He paused at the door, but didn't turn around.

"Raven should be waking up about now – her room is on the first floor, on the right. She's probably got some old clothes you can use."

"Thank y-" she began. But he'd already gone.

* * *

Raven had not in fact been quite awake, and her red hair was sticking up all over her head. But she brightened up when Madeline explained her need to her.

"I haven't opened this wardrobe in months," she said, "but I used to be quite the fashion queen. You can have anything that fits – I think I may be taller than you though." Maddy rifled the clothes reflectively.

"Surely you can be any height you like?" she asked. Raven nodded.

"I can. But this is my natural shape. I think. It's how I look when I sleep, anyway. I pretty much default to five foot seven." The blue girl sat cross-legged on the bed, and Maddy decided that abandoning clothes had been a sensible move. She couldn't see this exotic creature in these cut-off shorts, the t-shirt with a parrot on the chest. Maddy pulled these and other things out on the bed, regarding them with something like dismay.

"Raven? How does someone choose what to wear?" Raven gave her a quizzical look, but tried her best to give an answer.

"Frankly, when I wore clothes, I'd choose whatever I thought was most likely to put all the guys into a sweat," she admitted, with an unrepentant grin. She looked surprised when Maddy blushed bright red.

"I don't know very much about – all that," Maddy murmured. "I just don't want to look stupid. I've never had to choose my clothes before."

Raven looked baffled.

"But what did you wear?"

"Hospital gowns mostly. Style wasn't an issue." Raven put her vivid head on one side.

"Hospital gowns? Why, were you sick?" Maddy opened her mouth to answer, not really sure what she was going to say. Then Raven held up a blue hand, her yellow eyes glazing as if listening to an inner voice.

"That's Charles," she explained. "He says he'd like to talk to you - as soon as you're ready, of course." Taking charge of the situation, Raven pulled out a soft green sweater and a pair of skinny black jeans and thrust them at Maddy. "This colour suits you – it'll do for now. I'll have a rummage, see what I can find, and put some things in your room for later. Go on down – he's in the study."

Maddy smiled gratefully – she was certainly getting a lot of practice at gratitude – yanked on the clothes and headed down the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4

Charles had woken to find Erik not there.

This wasn't so unusual in and of itself – he'd always been something of a sluggard, whereas Erik seemed to begrudge himself a thing so purposeless as sleep, resenting his need for it as a weakness. He slept like he ate, like he smiled, like he loved, sparingly and in spite of himself, only as needed. That was part of the problem.

At some point, Erik had stopped fighting himself, had put loving Charles into the category of need. And in the manner of the man, when he had committed to a course there was nothing half-hearted about it – just as he had loathed Shaw, body and soul, and sacrificed everything else to see through his vengeance, when he realised he needed to love Charles, he had thrown himself into it with the same single-minded certainty. After Cuba, Charles knew there was nothing that the older man wouldn't do to help him, to protect him. He knew how much Erik had compromised himself to be true to that love, how much he had denied his true nature, how much he had sacrificed. But Erik's need for Charles's love scared him. And so, at times like this, when he was troubled, at just the time he most needed that love, he drew himself away from it, as if testing himself to see if he could still survive without that crutch.

Sitting in his study, Charles put his hand over his eyes and sighed. They had been through it all before, and sometimes Charles wondered helplessly if it would always be so _hard_, if Erik was always going to fight himself every step of the way because he was so terrified to hope. And sometimes fear took over Charles himself, that Erik's love and Erik's guilt had got so mixed up in the German's mind that he'd lost sight of which one held him here.

A lot of Charles's confidence had gone the same way as his legs, but he still had pride enough to feel the shame of that – to be loved out of pity, not desire. He tried to tell himself that he was being foolish, that Erik still loved him, that the saw the man he used to be still there inside his crippled body. When things were good, when they were close, he truly felt that love, a fierce tenderness mixed with a bewildered, disbelieving awe, the same love he had felt from Erik the first night they spent together, before Shaw, before Cuba. But at times like this, when things were so strained between them, and Erik pulled away from him, he couldn't help but wonder just how long any love could survive under such a heavy burden of guilt.

Of course, he could have cleared the question up by taking a good look inside his lover's head. But quite apart from the fact that that would be disrespectful and quite wrong, Charles was frankly afraid of what he might discover. Better to wrestle with his doubts than have his fears confirmed.

Things would be different if… if…

He _tried_ to push the thought aside. Couldn't. He was a hypocrite, telling Erik to be patient, to wait, when all he could think about was _if it could work… if I could walk again…_

The worst thing was (and competition for that was quite stiff, what with the desperate yearning, the dread that it wouldn't work, the horrible worry that he would never get the chance to find out) the _worst _thing was, he wasn't even sure he wanted it.

Of course, of _course _he longed to walk again. To have his freedom and his independence back, the ease in his own skin that had once been his birthright. And yet.

The evil thought in the back of his mind, the thought that insisted that he and Erik could never really work, that it had been doomed from the outset to disaster, and that it was only Erik's pity and guilt that had kept him around this long… That thought whispered, _what if it works? What if it works, and you can walk, and there's nothing left between you to hold him here?_

Charles put his hand over his eyes, feeling the waves of depression that never seemed too far away these days sucking at his metaphorical boots. He knew, from hard experience, the only way to extricate himself from their pull was to focus on something other than himself. He raised a hand to his temple and reached out with his mind for Madeline.

He found her instantly, a foreign mind here amongst those he knew and loved. She was with Raven, trying on clothes – he nodded in approval at the admiration and appreciation flowing from the girl towards his sister. Raven (or Mystique, as she more and more often thought of herself) was so different now from the girl he'd grown up with, and she could be prickly with strangers. That Madeline had formed a bond with her so quickly was heartening, said a lot about the girl's resilience, that in spite of what she'd been through, she still had it in her to trust, to love. So different from Erik, bent and broken by his suffering.

Suddenly, Charles became alert to the dangerous turn the conversation was taking. Madeline didn't seem to mind Raven asking about her past, but Charles didn't want anyone else to know about the girl's power, lest they see the obvious implications for himself. It was going to be hard enough to keep Erik in check, to hold him back from forcing the question before Madeline was ready. With Raven, he would stand no chance at all, unless he put her in a coma. He nudged into his sister's head more forcefully than was strictly necessary, derailing her train of thought and asking her to send the girl to him.

* * *

Madeline had decided to just go ahead and like Professor X. He had an incredibly restful presence, a good-natured ease of manner which made him impossible not to like. When he explained to her that she should probably keep quiet about her more spectacular ability, at least for now, in case word somehow got out to Fiskel, she was touched that he had taken the time to worry about her. She agreed to keep it between herself, the professor, and Erik Lensherr, the moody German who had managed to do her two good turns that day whilst still giving every impression he hated her guts. She mentioned her encounter with Erik in the kitchen that morning, and the professor's friendly smile tightened a little.

"You mustn't mind Erik – that's just his way. It's nothing personal; he hasn't had an easy life, and finds it hard to be at ease with strangers. I'm sure you would understand. You two have more in common than you know. But don't be deceived by his attitude; he may be light on social graces, but he cares as passionately as I do about keeping all of us safe – including you. Just give him time; he'll warm up, I promise."

Something about the way he talked about Erik – a mixture of wistfulness, indulgence and frustration – stirred her curiosity. The previous night in the study, she had thought she'd caught the scent of pheromones between the two men, but had dismissed the idea as a mistake borne of her exhaustion. But perhaps she had been right.

As she had said to Raven, she knew next to nothing about relationships – spending your teenage years shut up in an institution did not allow for the usual exploration of burgeoning desires that accompanied adolescence. All she knew of romantic matters came from TV soap operas, and while she was dimly aware that there were men who preferred other men, she had never really considered how such a thing would be in practice. She thought again about last night – the way the two of them had seemed to look out after each other, to think with one thought; thought as well of the scent of fear that had rolled off Lensherr when he attacked her, thinking she posed Charles a threat. It wasn't love as she had seen it played out between over-made-up starlets and lantern-jawed leading men; it seemed something more difficult, more profound and more beautiful.

Although he had promised not to read her mind without her permission, she suddenly became aware that he was giving her a look which suggested she hadn't been keeping her thoughts quite to herself. She blushed, but he was the one who apologized.

"Sorry; I didn't mean to hear that. It's just difficult when someone is concentrating on their thoughts. Please don't be embarrassed. It's common knowledge in the school, so you would have found out sooner or later. It doesn't – bother you, does it?"

Even as she shook her head, she took the time to wonder at this man, who'd offered her the only home she'd ever known, taken her under his wing without knowing so much as her name, more concerned with her comfort than his own privacy.

"Why should it bother anyone? It's nobody's business but your own. And if you make each other happy…" A flash of pain briefly crossed the man's face, but he smiled through it, then nodded briskly.

"Good, that's settled then. Now, we ought to talk about what you would like to do here. You can take all the time you need to rest; but I fancy you've had enough of doing nothing?" She nodded vigorously, grateful that he would understand that. "So, do you have any plans for your future? Any idea what you would like to do?"

When he said these words, the possibilities seemed to open up for her like a flower. Charles's open hands seemed to encompass anything and everything, a daunting prospect for a girl who'd never even decided what shirt to wear or food to eat. But more than trepidation, she felt excited – as if she was about to jump off the top of a diving board. A thousand futures fluttered like fans before her, but one dream seemed stronger than all of the rest. Charles raised his eyebrows.

"A doctor? I must admit, I am surprised. I would have thought you'd had enough of hospitals to last you a lifetime." She shook her head.

"It wasn't totally awful. I mean, it was – but even though it wasn't my choice, and even if they weren't the best people, Fiskel did save a lot of lives by doing what he did. Sometimes that was the only thought that kept me going, when I was sick or tired or scared of the next operation – the thought that, because of what I went through, somewhere there'd be a wife or brother or child getting their loved one back from the dead. Like my parents and Jessica. That's an amazing thing to be able to do. I'd love to carry on doing it one day – just not like that. Do you think I could be a doctor?"

He looked touched that his opinion should matter so much to her.

"I think you could do pretty much anything you set your mind to, my dear. And I'll do anything I can to help. I don't suppose you've had any formal schooling?" She shook her head.

"He wouldn't let me. But I think I could catch up quite quick – you only have to tell me something once, and I'll remember it. Is there anyone here who would be willing to tutor me?" Xavier smiled.

"There definitely is. Dr McCoy is one of the most brilliant physicians I have ever met – mind you, he's brilliant in several fields – there isn't much you couldn't learn from him. He also happens to be an excellent teacher, if a little shy. I know you're going to get on famously. Although he is away at the moment, visiting his parents in Colorado. He's had a – well, a change in circumstances which he felt he needed to discuss with them. He'll be back by the weekend. In the meantime, there's the library – you're welcome to get started on anything that might interest you there."

She leant across the desk, suddenly serious.

"What I'd like – what I'd really, really like – is to learn more about our kind. I want to know why we are all the way we are; what the cause and the purpose of it is. I don't suppose there is much written on that?" Charles smiled almost mischieviously, reminding her suddenly that for all his worldly kindliness he wasn't that much older than she was. He reached into a drawer and drew out a thick volume bound in blue leather.

"It just so happens that I have right here the authoritative history and etiology of mutation in human beings, including a 'theoretical' consideration" – here a conspiratorial waggle of eyebrows made Maddy giggle – "of the possibility of human beings mutating to the next level, a species with extraordinary abilities." He pushed the book across the table towards her with a grin. "It's a riveting read, if I say so myself."


	5. Chapter 5

Erik cursed inwardly as he entered the Library that afternoon and found that girl curled up in an armchair with Charles's thesis. Her green eyes darted down each page rapidly, and she was already past halfway through, so absorbed she didn't even notice him coming in. Her dark hair hung into her eyes, and her knees were tucked up under her chin, only her bare feet poking out of the long forest-coloured sweater that he used to see on Raven. He considered slipping away before she realised he had been there; but then a breeze for the hallway behind him pushed his scent towards her; her chin came up sharply and she snapped the book shut as she turned to face him. She was, he realised, a bit afraid.

_Madeline_, he reminded himself, _her name is Madeline and none of this is her fault or her responsibility_. He had promised Charles he was going to try. So he was trying.

* * *

Erik had gone to Charles in the end, hating himself for his weakness but unable to endure his own isolation, or the hurt look Charles couldn't quite conceal when Erik was curt with him over lunch. He knew it wasn't fair to punish Charles for his own suffering. So he had gone into the study, knelt beside that bloody chair and mentally whispered: _I'm sorry_. Charles had run a hand softly through his hair.

_I do understand, my friend. Truly. But it still hurts. I wish you could trust me with your feelings, not shut me out like this. _

Erik stood up and took his hand, shame-faced, laid his cheek against it, hating the fact that just being with Charles made it feel like things were better when they weren't.

_I don't even trust myself with my feelings, Charles_, he thought. _You knew what I was when you met me. _Charles sighed.

_Yes I did, much better than you do. And I fell in love with you anyway._

"More fool you," Erik said miserably. Charles shook his head but said nothing, just curled his fingers around Erik's jaw, drew him closer into a kiss that contained no small measure of despair. Erik responded, trying to blot out the past morning's separation with the passion that burned between them, tried to make everything else go away. And for a while, it worked. Charles gave himself up willingly, and the two of them put aside their problems in favour of this, just this, the one right thing that briefly seemed to redeem everything that was wrong between them. They ended up on Charles's couch, Erik's arms wrapped tightly around him, almost too tight, trying to convey in the strength of his grip the words he couldn't say. _I do love you_, he thought sadly. _Just you_. And Charles left it at that, aware how fragile things were becoming but not knowing how to mend them. He sat up suddenly, determined to turn the conversation back toward something that could do some good.

"So I hear you saw Madeline this morning. She's quite intimidated by you, you know." Erik snorted.

"Her and everybody else round here. Honestly, you'd think I've a cloven hoof the way some of these kids behave." Charles gently tweaked his nipple through his clothes.

"Well if you didn't walk around looking like thunder all the time… but anyway. I was thinking: why don't you try and talk to her a little bit? She seems almost _too_ well-adjusted, if you know what I mean. Palling up with Raven, trusting us all so easily. That's marvellous, of course, as far as it goes, but after everything she's been through I don't think it can be the whole picture. I'd hoped you might know how to talk to her, get her to open up." Erik raised his eyebrows, leaning back.

"One lab rat to another, do you mean?" Charles grimaced.

"Not quite how I'd have put it, but, well, yes. You have a lot in common, after all. I was thinking it might be good for her, to talk to someone who might understand." Erik looked at him helplessly. It was one thing if Charles was out to win a halo; but expecting Erik to join in seemed optimistic to a fault.

"You don't think it might bother her that every time I look at her, all I see is a giant tube of blood? My God, I've been avoiding her all day just so I can keep myself from carting her off to the sick bay!"

Charles shook his head. "Running away from her isn't going to work, my love. She's one of us, for better or for worse. You're going to have to learn to live alongside her, to live with the possibility that she'll never-" Erik put his finger on Charles's lips.

"Don't. Please, Charles, don't. I _need_-" his mouth twisted round the unfamiliar word – "to believe in this. Aren't you always exhorting me to hope? Let me have hope for you, even if you're too saintly to hope for yourself." Charles shrugged, but Erik could tell he was deeply moved by this.

"Be that as it may, I would really appreciate it if you'd make an effort with the girl. You're the only one apart from me who knows what she can do, what she's been through. And it might be good for you as well, you know. I know you've been unhappy here lately." Erik tensed, his grip loosening as his instinct to escape kicked in. Charles tightened his embrace in response. "I know you feel like we're achieving nothing, that we're still hiding, that we ought to be fighting more for mutant rights." A deep sigh. "I know you're only here because of me. And I'm grateful for that, more than you know. But you can't hang your whole life on you and I, Erik. You're too strong a personality for that. You're going to end up resenting me, unless you find a way to reconcile the life you're living with the man you are."

Erik went even more rigid, if that were possible: Charles was skating far too close to all the things they had silently agreed to leave alone, lifting the lid on incompatibilities both at times feared were intractable.

"Madeline could be the way, Erik, and all those like her. I know how angry you are about what's been done to her, just because she's different. I know how it fills you with rage, as well it should. If you could just harness that rage, temper it with compassion, you could be a pillar of strength for all of our maltreated children. You could give them a role model, like Raven tries to do – 'mutant and proud'. You can make sure the younger ones grow up sure of their right to live in this world, in full command of their own gifts. You can teach them to be strong, to be brave. I know we don't see eye to eye on much, but surely you can see the value in that? Surely you can find a place in all of this?"

Charles's voice was urgent, wistful, almost pleading. Erik felt a stab of shame; he had failed even more than he had realised to convince his lover of his commitment to the school that was his life. He forced his body to relax, picked up Charles's hand and kissed it reassuringly.

"You always see the best in me. I don't know if I can be what you think I am. I'm too used to being alone, having no-one to worry about but myself. I'm too impatient with others' weakness. But I'll try; I really am doing my best, Charles. I _want_ to be happy here. With you."

Charles kissed his neck. "That's all I ask my love. Just try with her."

* * *

Erik was slightly irked to find that what had seemed like an innocent request from Charles for a particular book from the library was in fact a not-so-subtle nudge towards getting this trying started. But he was here now, so perhaps there was no time like the present. Steeling himself, he sat down opposite the girl, who followed him with wary eyes.

"What are you reading?" he asked her - as if he didn't know.

"The professor's thesis. It's incredible. Did you know there's a mutation of a certain gene that can stop people ever breaking their bones? And one that means you can see more colours than normal people?"

"That's nothing," Erik said dismissively. "There's a little girl coming here next term who can control the weather." Madeline's eyes went round.

"You're kidding me."

"I don't kid," Erik said flatly.

"I just bet you don't," she batted back cheekily. Erik blinked. Charles was right about her – it was almost unnatural how swiftly she seemed to acclimatise to strange people, difficult situations. He remembered how he had been when the camp had been liberated; he was almost feral with fear and anger, bit and scratched anyone who tried to touch him, couldn't sleep unless there was a locked door between him and everybody else. How had she come out of her shattered childhood so… innocent?

"Have you got to his conclusion yet?" She looked a little bit guilty.

"Kind of. I haven't read that far, but I sort of skipped ahead for a while. This other stuff is amazing, but I wanted to read about – us. Real mutants, here now."

"What did you think?" he asked.

"I don't really know what to make of it. I mean, everything he says points to us being the next stage of evolution – but what does that mean for everyone else? We're still in a minority – but will that change? Will more and more children be born mutants, until there aren't any normal people left? I don't know." Erik was pleasantly surprised to find out how astute she was. If he was going to have to babysit a child to prove himself to Charles, it would be significantly less of a chore if she proved intelligent. He decided to test a theory on her.

"When _homo sapiens _arrived on the scene, they didn't just out-breed Neanderthals; they wiped them out. What do you think about that?" She frowned, but seemed to give the question serious thought.

"It's certainly a thought. I mean, the implication's there in Charles's work. If we're better, why wouldn't we take over? But then you think about what that would mean; families split, turned against each other. I mean, you wouldn't turn on your own family, would you, not just because they're normal and you're not?" Erik flinched. He'd gotten used to being around people who knew enough of his history not to mention his family (or else just knew better than to talk to him any more than was strictly necessary). Madeline's innocent question tore the scab off a wound that had never fully healed.

"I haven't got a family to turn on," he said curtly. "But no, if they were here, I'd never turn on them. I'd give my life to protect them." The girl looked mortified.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to-" Erik waved her apology away, saw her register the tattoo on his arm.

"We were Jews in Germany. It happened to a lot of families. It doesn't matter now." With an effort, Erik unclenched the fists he hadn't even noticed he had formed. "Back to what you were saying then; you don't think mutants could take on the humans because they'd be turning on their own brothers and sisters, their parents, their friends?" She nodded, happy to let him take the conversation where he would, anywhere away from the place that caused that savage pain to flash behind his eyes.

"But what about the mutants whose families turn on them when they find out what they can do? Whose parents hate them, fear them? We have so many of them here, and there are many more. Raven's first family tried to drown her in a bathtub when she was seven. It was only when she found Charles she found her real family, her mutant family." Madeline's mouth had dropped open in shock.

"Poor Raven," she breathed, her eyes filling with tears. "How could they do a thing like that to their own daughter?" Erik scoffed.

"People have done far worse with less reason. I mean, look at your own parents, giving you up to God knows what just to save their other child, their human child. Look at Fiskel. The human race are mostly savages, a thin crust of civility over a seething mass of cruelty, superstition and fear. You can't expect anything of any of them, except that they'll stop at nothing to protect their own interests. We can be no less ruthless if we want to survive!" Erik stopped short, alarmed that he was almost shouting, breathing hard. He felt as if he'd said too much, exposed himself. And yet it felt so _good _to finally say it, to admit that he couldn't buy in to Charles's ethos of coexistence, of 'hope'. He looked into Madeline's face, expecting to see judgment, disappointment, or horror – what he would see if he had spoken this way to Charles.

Instead she looked thoughtful. A delicate frown creased her brows, as if she was considering a particularly complex equation, rather than his manifesto for an interspecies battle to the death. He reminded himself that she had spent almost her whole life in a private ward, and had no preconceptions about the world that she lived in. In some ways, she was as ignorant as a baby; but she wasn't stupid. She was quick-witted, he could tell even from this brief conversation. In some ways, she reminded him of Charles – so fascinated by new knowledge, so quick to make connections between one thought and the next. And yet, Charles used his brilliance like a shield, deflecting any ideas that disturbed his worldview with such dazzling displays of rhetoric it was impossible to argue against him. Whereas when Erik looked at Madeline mulling over what he had said, he realised that she was taking what he said entirely at face value, considering it from every angle – that her opinion wasn't yet formed, and what he said could still shape or shift it. It was a powerful thing, to watch her open mind work at the argument he posed. _At this point, she could become anything_, he realised. _Anything at all_.

"There's more to it than that though, isn't there?" she asked, bringing him back to himself. "It's not like being a mutant makes you exempt from human conditioning, does it? If we are bred by humans, raised by humans, live with humans, love humans, it stands to reason we'll be just as bad – or good – as them."

_Shaw_. Erik could see him even now, shooting his mother as casually as picking his teeth, destroying Darwin – his own kind – just for trying to protect his fellows. For all his power, he'd been as petty and sadistic as the worst of humanity. He blinked, shaking his nemesis from his mind and concentrating on what Madeline was saying.

"It's not that I don't feel a sort of – I don't know, species consciousness. But I wonder if that's because I never really had a family. Perhaps that's why you feel that way as well – because it was with mutants that you first felt you belonged?" He stared at her, amazed by what he took for presumption – then realised that it was nothing of the kind. Her expression was eager, as if expecting him to agree – or disagree, perhaps, but there was no intention to be rude. She simply following the thought through, not considering if what she said was impertinent. He bit back the sharp retort that had risen up in his throat, took a deep breath to steady his voice.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well," she explained contemplatively, "it seems like you're all kinds of outsider. First a Jew, then a mutant, being gay-" Erik exploded to his feet.

"You don't know anything about me!" he yelled. The cast-iron spiral staircase leading to the gallery began to tremble ominously. The girl shrank back into her chair, belatedly becoming aware of the offense she had given. In spite of her obvious apprehension, she put out a conciliatory hand.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to be rude. I smelled it on the two of you – the way you're drawn to each other. I didn't mean anything bad by it!" The staircase stopped its staccato groaning as Erik fought for control of himself. Her voice was low. "I think it's beautiful that two people can love each other like that. I don't know how; but it is good to see."

Erik was panting, uncertain how this girl could so provoke and disarm with the same careless candour. He sat back down, a little bit abashed.

"It's alright. You didn't say anything wrong. I'm not ashamed of it – of loving Charles. It's just – gay? I don't know about that. There's only been Charles. There is only Charles. Before him, I didn't know what love was. I didn't have room for it." He slanted a suspicious look at her. "Are you sure you don't have any – extra powers? I don't talk about things like this. With anyone." She smiled tremulously.

"I've just got a big mouth I guess. I need to learn to stop and think before running it off. I'm really sorry if I made you mad." Erik decided it was time to leave, but he made an effort to smile back at her – a tight, constricted smile, but nonetheless.

"You should get back to your reading. Let me know what you think of the last part: 'to _homo neanderthalensis_, his mutant cousin _homo sapiens_ was an aberration. Peaceful cohabitation, if ever it existed, was short-lived. Records show, without exception' – _without exception_ – 'that the arrival of the mutated human species in any region was followed by the immediate extinction of their less evolved kin'. Does have a kind of prophetic ring to it."

"Only if you go out of your way to take it out of context." Erik jumped as Hank lumbered up behind him. "The professor asked _me _to tutor Madeline. What the hell are you trying to do to her?" He asked suspiciously. Erik clenched his jaw. Hank had never liked him, but at least when he was just a nerdy boy with big feet, he'd had the common sense to keep it to himself. Now he was built like a brick wall and covered in blue fur, he made no secret of his antipathy. Erik was frequently hard-pressed to heed Charles's request that he refrain from testing just how tough Hank was now with the aid of a steel girder.

"I'm not 'doing' anything to her, Beast. Just having a conversation." Hank growled sceptically.

"You don't have conversations. Are you done?" Erik ushered him theatrically toward the armchair and walked away. He turned on his heel in the library door.

"We'll talk more later, Madeline," he said, primarily to irritate McCoy, but was rewarded with a dazzling smile. A smile, he noticed, not without a certain disappointment, that she then just as blithely turned upon Hank. _Maybe I'm wrong about her_, he thought as he left. _Maybe she hasn't got an open mind – maybe she's just another one who doesn't want to have to pick a side_.


	6. Chapter 6

Hank was still bristling as he sat down – and not just in the literal sense, he thought cynically. Erik could always rile him, even when he wasn't in the kind of mood that he was in today. He would never understand why Charles had thrown himself in front of that bullet, taken the fate that should have been Erik's. Hank's was an orderly, balanced mind, and it offended his sense of proportion - Charles, who had so much to offer, left in a wheelchair while Erik, who was nothing but bad news in a pretty package, got to walk around upsetting everyone, manipulating people, and somehow even after everything he'd done get the lion's share of Charles's love. It just wasn't right.

Hank knew he was bitter, but he couldn't help it. So much had gone wrong in the last few months. For a brief while last year his quiet, drab life – a life spent simultaneously hiding and compensating for his deformity – had burst into spectacular colour, had seemed to bloom with possibility. He had friends who knew of and even appreciated his talents; a mentor he could like and respect; a beautiful woman had practically been throwing herself at him; and most excitingly of all, he had made a breakthrough he thought would cure him forever of the mutation that had blighted his life.

But nothing had worked out as it should have. Their nascent little family had been torn apart – Darwin's death, Angel's defection, Erik's selfish pursuit of vengeance and the result of Charles's maiming. Raven had pulled away from him when he had offered her what he had thought they both wanted – the chance to live a normal life – and now she had embraced life as Mystique. And worst of all, the serum he had thought would cure his ugly feet had instead turned him into a hairy blue freak, who couldn't even go outside without wearing a crash helmet. He couldn't stand to look in the mirror. He couldn't stand to be around Mystique, and hear her going on about being 'mutant and proud'. It was so much easier for her - she could look normal any time she liked. And she didn't have any parents.

Hank tried to shake that last thought off, to concentrate on what Madeline said. She was a dark, pretty girl with the greenest eyes he'd ever seen, peering out from under heavy bangs; but he couldn't help noticing she was missing a finger. She was smiling at him as if they were already the best of friends. It was like she hadn't noticed yet what he looked like, but Hank was well aware that was impossible.

"Dr. McCoy? Thank you so much for agreeing to tutor me. I promise, I'll learn really fast. I don't want to take up all of your time - I'm sure you have a lot of things to do."

"That's fine, really, I'm happy to. I used to work for the CIA, so I'm kind of at a loose end compared to what I'm used to. And please, just call me Hank. Dr. McCoy's my father's name." She nodded eagerly, then seemed to double-take.

"Oh yeah – the professor said you had gone home to visit your parents, that you wouldn't be back for a few days more. How come you're back so soon?"

Hank's face fell, his mouth twisting bitterly. "Yeah well, it turned out to be a much shorter visit than I'd planned." He had gone home to tell his parents what had happened to him. It had been the professor who'd advised him he should get it over with – Hank had been so stressed out avoiding their phone calls he'd started shedding on the furniture. Growing up with his feet had been bad enough – a lot of Hank's compulsion to over-achieve stemmed from a desperate desire to please his parents, to make up for the fact they had a mutant for a son. What would their reaction be when they found that through his own stupidity, he now looked like a monster from a fairy story?

Xavier had been optimistic. "Your parents love you, Hank – even if they don't always do it very well. That won't have changed just because you're a little bit – enhanced. You should try and have more faith in people. After all, they raised a wonderful son – they must be pretty decent people, no?"

So Hank had bitten the bullet, taken a motorcycle ride across the country to his parents' house.

It had taken almost half an hour to get his mom to stop screaming, to convince her that it was him. His dad hadn't been able to speak. He'd sat in his chair with a thousand-mile stare on his face, looking old for the first time in Hank's life. They'd both calmed down eventually, but it was clear how horrified they were, and Hank hadn't been able to bear the stilted conversation, the staring, the way his mother kept wringing a throw cushion between her hands as if she meant to strangle it. He had planned to stay for three days; in fact, he left the house after only three hours. He didn't think he would be going back.

His silence had obviously gone on too long. The girl was looking apprehensive, belatedly aware that she had asked the wrong question.

"Anyway…" she said, casting around for something innocuous to say. Hank decided to help her out. After all, none of this was her doing.

"Would you like to come up and see my lab? I'm kind of tired – it was a long trip – so I thought we could start formal teaching tomorrow; but I can show you around if you like, talk you through some of the work I'm doing?" She agreed swiftly, and they headed up.

* * *

Madeline followed Hank through the mansion, hoping that talking about his work would take his mind off what had obviously been a painful visit home. She wanted to ask him more about it, but her recent encounter with Erik had left her with a new awareness that not everyone was open to discussing their troubles as freely as someone like her, or Charles. She wanted to make people like her, to put them at their ease the way Xavier so effortlessly did. That wouldn't happen if she was always putting her foot in her mouth. So she kept quiet as she walked alongside Hank, taking him in – the thick muscles, luxuriant blue fur, the big, sad eyes. Unfortunately, he seemed to take her silent scrutiny for judgment.

"I didn't always look like this, you know," he said a touch defensively. "I used to be mostly normal." He thrust an old ID into her hand, and she saw a skinny, bespectacled boy with a shy smile. She almost couldn't believe that it was the same person – except for that same sadness in the eyes.

"What happened?" she asked, forgetting her newly-minted resolve to ask fewer questions until she was better equipped to judge how they would be received. But Hank seemed keen enough to talk, in much the same way someone with a recent wound can't help picking the scab.

"I made a stupid mistake. I had these – weird feet. Quite useful in their own way, but – deformed. I just wanted to look normal, to be normal. Have you met Mystique?" He looked surprised when she grinned at the mention of her friend.

"I have; she's been so kind to me. She even gave me some of her old clothes." Hank blinked, then shrugged.

"Well I guess she hardly needs them these days. Back then, she used to feel like I do – she wanted to be normal, too. I figured if anybody's mutation had the key to controlling appearance, hers would. I took her blood and studied it, tried to isolate the transformative mutation into a serum. I thought it had worked. I was about as wrong as I could be. Her mutation just aggravated mine – it went into overdrive, and this is the result."

Madeline was staring at him, unease starting to flutter in her heart. All this talk of blood samples, experiments, trying to isolate the mutant gene – Hank seemed like a nice man, but he was sounding just like Fiskel. Fiskel had always been infuriated by his inability to work out what it was that made her blood special. If he could have synthesized it, his income could have increased almost without limit, without the necessity to keep her healthy and whole. She suddenly wasn't so sure she wanted to be tutored by McCoy. Charles had said he was a genius; what if he worked out her secret, working in close quarters with her every day? He was a doctor too; what if he, like Fiskel, wanted to unravel the mystery of her mutation, decided that the greater good that knowledge could do outweighed her right to make her own free choice?

Hank stopped so suddenly she almost walked right into his broad back.

"Here we are! I've not got many active studies on the go just now, I'm afraid. I've been – adjusting. And ordering a lot of larger equipment." At this, he held up his massive hands with a game attempt at gallows humour, undermined by the way the corners of his mouth pulled down. He sprang across the room and indicated her to look down a microscope. "But there are a few things you might find interesting. I've been working on my own new DNA, of course – I managed to make myself look this way, so it stands to reason there might still be a way to undo it. More testing next time though, I think. And then I'm still looking at Raven's mutation to see if it could be manipulated into a cure for paralysis. And over here…"

"As she watched him move from project to project, losing the sadness in his eyes as he got caught up in his enthusiasm for his work; describing project after project with the obvious aim of improving the lot of his fellow man, human and mutant alike, a little of her panic began to ebb. This friendly, overgrown, brilliant boy was no Fiskel – surely he would never hurt her? And hadn't the professor promised that no-one here would betray her? She tried to still her pounding heart, to summon up a smile for Hank. And then he threw open a door in back of the lab, and her stomach dropped down into her toes.

"And this is the sick bay. Nobody here right now – we don't have very many students yet, and anyhow we mutants seem to suffer less from the usual coughs and fevers – our ailments are rarer, but generally far more spectacular." Hank ushered her into the hospital room. There was the adjustable bed, the trolley with its eager array of instruments, the monitoring equipment with its flashing lights and trailing tubes. She was suddenly overwhelmed by the horribly familiar smells of boiled cotton, sterilized steel, rubber gloves and – underneath it all – the ghost of blood. She lurched backwards against the door as if she had been struck; her vision darkened and swirled and she bent double, trying to breathe, just to _breathe_. She could almost feel the anaesthetic coursing through her veins, paralyzing her, sucking her under, making her powerless…

And then she was being lifted up, put down in a sitting position up against the wall back in the lab, her head gently pushed between her knees. A huge hand rubbed soft circles on her back, and a voice murmured "You're alright, you're going to be alright, everything's fine…"

Her vision cleared; her ragged breath slowly came back under her own control. She realized she was going to be sick only a second before she was, but Hank was ready, thrust a kidney dish under her chin, pushed her bangs back from her cold, sweating face as she retched miserably into the bowl.

Almost immediately she felt better; then utterly embarrassed.

"I'm so, so sorry," she choked out. "I don't know what just happened-" she broke off. Of course she knew. But how could she explain?

"Looked like a panic attack to me. Have you had one before?" Hank's voice was soft, concerned, but calm – a reassuring, bedside manner voice. He was hunkered down in front of her, his massive paw on her back again, patting soothingly. All her limbs were trembling weakly, but his hand on her back felt good. She shook her head. It was the truth; she'd never had a panic attack before. The hospital had been her life – it would have been like being afraid of the air when there was nothing else to breathe. But now she had known something of the world outside – had felt freedom, slept in a real bed, had conversations with people who might become her friends – the thought of going back to that was indescribably awful. The smell had brought it all back to her, the powerlessness, the exhaustion, the total isolation. How could she make Hank understand without giving herself away? She opened her mouth to try to speak -

And suddenly, was pervaded with a sense of calm. Her pulse stopped humming, her mind calmed and cleared, her breath came easy in her chest. Charles Xavier rolled into the room, and she noticed for the first time he was in a wheelchair.


	7. Chapter 7

Charles was exerting just the merest fraction of his power over Madeline, just enough to help her gather herself, to ease the terror that he had felt from across the mansion. It was a shame that to help her he would have to reveal the fact he had managed to conceal from her thus far. But ultimately, he had known he couldn't keep his secret forever. If revealing it could allow her to keep hers a little longer, then that was just the way it had to be.

"Welcome back, Hank. Don't worry; I'll look after Madeline. We'll talk later." Hank hesitated, didn't take his hand off Madeline. Charles felt his concern, mixed with something – already? – more tender. He sighed; Hank's heart was so starving for love in the wake of his abortive affair with Raven, it was almost inevitable that he would latch onto a girl like Madeline – why hadn't Charles predicted that? Or, come to that, the Madeline's theoretical desire to be a doctor might come up against the very real trauma she had suffered? He was letting people down, he worried, so wrapped up in his own troubles, with Erik, with his legs. He owed these youngsters better. With that in mind, he put a friendly hand on Hank's arm, took him aside.

"I'll take good care of her, I promise. And I will explain. Just let me calm her down first, there's a good chap." With one last reluctant look after Madeline, Hank acquiesced, ceded the lab, and Madeline, to Charles.

Madeline had pulled herself up into a kneeling position, so their eyes were level. They were swimming with tears, but the terror was gone.

"Did you do something to my mind?" she asked.

"Only a tiny bit. I'm sorry. I was worried about you – I felt your fear clear across the house. What happened?" She blushed.

"I lost my shit is what happened. Not to mention my lunch. Poor Hank. He must think I'm completely crazy." Charles shook his head, took her hand.

"He doesn't think any such thing." When she looked doubtful, he tapped his temple. "Take my word for it! In fact, I think he likes you very much. Why did you get upset?" By way of answer, she pointed back into the sick bay, and tentatively broadcast to him the memory of her panic attack. Charles nodded at this confirmation of what he'd suspected. He put a hand on her shoulder comfortingly.

"I'm sorry; I should have realised it was too soon, should have had you wait." She shook her head, put a hand on his arm.

"It wasn't your fault! I shouldn't have let myself get so upset. I feel stupid now; it was just – too much. All at once. I'm over it now, I think. I just should have thought more about it first." She stood up slowly, and walked back towards the sick bay door. Charles watched her set her shoulders and stride in, touched by her courage as she faced her fear. He rolled to the doorway and watched her as she stood as still as stone in the dead centre of the room, her eyes closed, her nostrils quivering as she forced herself to breathe in all the smells that had catapulted her back in time. He gently slipped into her mind and marvelled at the richness of her sense – even with her eyes shut, she knew exactly where each item in the room was, what it was made of, could smell exactly where he sat, the hint of sweat in his armpits from rushing up to the lab mixed with his own aftershave, the warm wool of his jacket, the tangy leather of his shoes.

The girl opened her eyes as he returned into himself. Charles watched as, very deliberately, she walked over to the trolley by the operating table, reached out and picked up a scalpel, turned it over in her hands, put it back down. She crossed the room to the hospital bed, ran her hands across the clean sheets. Finally, she sat down, kicked off the leather boots she was wearing, and in one graceful motion pulled her legs up and lay down flat on the bed. She gave a deep, shuddering sigh, and then began, as naturally as breathing, to cry.

Listening to her, Charles realised that weeping wasn't actually an ugly sound. The ugliness came when people fought it, as they inevitably did – when they choked and gasped and tried and tried and failed to get control over the feeling passing through them. Madeline did none of this. She simply gave herself up to the tears, let them come, breathed through them until they were all gone. He approached her, reached out and took her hand. She squeezed his gently, and then slowly opened her eyes.

"I think I needed that." He tried to interpret the feeling emanating from her now – a sort of thin, spent peace which, along with the tremulous smile she found for him, made his heart go out to her, this poor, fragile, good-natured girl who asked for so little and had lost so much. "I'll be OK in here from now, I think. I hope Hank will still want to teach me; could you try and reassure him that I'll be alright? Or at very least, he's not going to have to hold my hair back while I barf again?"

Charles choked on the laughter that exploded out of him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed. She joined in, and for a moment he revelled in the feeling he had almost forgotten – easy, unstrained laughter with a friend.

"He is a doctor, you know, at a mutant school – I promise you, he's dealt with worse." She grimaced.

"I don't know, it was pretty epic. Have you ever forgotten to put the lid on the blender before pressing the button?" Another snort of mirth escaped from Charles, but Madeline suddenly looked serious. "It was a lot to take on top of his visit to his family falling through. I know I don't know him very well, but he seemed kind of – bleeding. I'm really fine now, professor – maybe you should go and make sure that Hank's OK?"

A wave of shame came over Charles – he hadn't even asked Hank how his trip had gone. "I'll go and see him now. Do me a favour though – don't spend the day in here. You've faced down enough demons for one day. Go outside, take a bath, watch a film or something. Just be kind to yourself; you've earned it." She nodded obligingly, slipped her boots back on, jumped off the bed.

"I don't need to be kind to myself; everyone here's taking good care of that. Thank you – again – for being there, for helping me. I'm already starting to rely on that."

"It's nothing, my dear. We'll speak again soon. Enjoy your evening." And she was gone. Charles looked at the slightly rumpled sick bed, and remembered how she had taken her grief, like a tree takes a heavy fall of snow, bending with it, then letting it go. He thought of Erik, battling his every emotion with a desperate violence that did more harm than good. He sighed. He wasn't religious – he was a scientist, and although he acknowledged that he was an idealist, he found enough hope in the human spirit that he didn't need to believe in a grander scheme. However, for a moment he rested his chin on his hands, screwed his eyes shut tight and let his longing find a voice: _please, let them help each other. Let him help her to be strong; let her teach him how to be weak. Let something good come out of all this pain._


	8. Chapter 8

Hank was waiting in Charles's study when he returned to it – a familiarity Charles did not mind in the least, as Hank was a dear and intimate friend. It was a great sadness to Charles that this troubled man and the two other people he loved best in the world – Erik and Raven – should always be so much at odds. He smiled reassuringly at the blue mutant, who had leapt to his feet as the door opened.

"She's absolutely fine, my friend. And please, don't worry, you did nothing wrong." Hank sagged with relief.

"It all happened so quickly, professor. One minute she was fine, and then-" Charles waved his explanation away.

"As I said, you couldn't have foreseen it. I should have; I apologise. Madeline has had some bad experiences in hospitals, and I should have realised she was not yet so well-recovered as she so wants everybody to believe." Hank raised a curious eyebrow.

"Bad experiences?" Charles nodded.

"I don't want to lie to you, Hank, so let's just leave it at that. Suffice to say that like too many of our kind, her mutation has led to her being mistreated and exploited. I really can't say any more than that at present. It's a question of her safety, and of yours. You understand?" Hank seemed about to protest, but then, reluctantly, nodded his head.

"Whatever you say, Charles. I know you wouldn't keep anything from me that I needed to know."

Charles felt a twinge of guilt at the trust Hank so guilelessly placed in him. He tried to reassure himself that he hadn't lied, except by omission. It was true that the less people knew about Madeline's gift the better - the more people who knew, the quicker it would get back to Fiskel where she was. But he hadn't mentioned his other reason for keeping her secret – that if Hank (or Raven, or anyone who cared about him) knew, it would put them into the same torment Erik was going through, desperate to know if she could help him but forbidden to find out. _Just like Erik, and just like me, _he thought, then firmly pushed the errant thought aside. He gestured for Hank to sit down, which he did gingerly, still not at ease in his new, bigger body even after several months.

"So tell me, how were things back in Idaho? Madeline suggested that they might not have gone so well?" Hank tensed and then, caught in Xavier's gentle, sympathetic gaze, opened up all in a rush, the poison of the last few days escaping in a burst of misery.

"They could hardly look at me, professor. None of us knew what to say. At least they didn't call the police, or the zoo, I guess. But they don't look at me and see their son; they only see the monster." He paused for breath, then put his massive head into his paws. "I know I'm lucky really. I was a total idiot, testing out a new drug on myself without any trials, or – I could have died, been poisoned, paralys-" Hank's head came up in horror as he realised what he had nearly said. Charles simply shook his head, excusing the slip-up without a word, patting Hank on the shoulder, encouraging him to carry on. More slowly, Hank continued.

"It could have been much worse. But sometimes I still feel like it's more than I can bear. I can't stand looking like this, feeling like this. All my life I've felt like a freak; all I've ever wanted was to be normal, and now-" He broke off, dropped his gaze to the carpet once more. Charles said nothing, knowing that he could not make Hank's peace for him. He could only be with him while he struggled with his pain, support him as he made his own slow way to acceptance. It was so pitifully little.

Charles never felt the burden of responsibility his power placed on him as heavily as in these moments, when someone good and innocent was weighed down with more grief than anybody should have to bear, when all they wanted was for something to just _make it go away_, and Charles knew that he could – but mustn't – do it. People's experiences, good and bad, made them what they were. It would be utterly wrong to take that away from them, even if they wanted him to.

Charles thought about Erik, about the nightmares that still sometimes shredded his sleep, the anger he carried around with him like a stone in his chest. And yet Charles knew that if he offered to take all of that away – to excise the horror from his lover's mind, Shaw, the camps, his mother's death, the Cuban beach – Erik would die before he would let him do it. Erik's anger, his suffering, his regrets – they were his strength and his penance, they were his meaning, for so long they had been all that he had. It was one of the things Charles loved about him – that doomed, devil-be-damned courage, to always look life in the eye, to stand by who he was, what he'd done. He loved him for that, as much as for everything else; and yet it broke his heart.

Hank spoke softly, not taking his eyes off the carpet. "How do you stand it, Charles? What's happened to you is so much worse than what's happened to me. But you just carry on. You even forgave Erik, while I don't think I'll ever forgive myself. Please help me. Help me understand how you go on."

Charles winced. Hank's words stripped through his debonair façade, straight into the dark home of every swallowed sob, every broken night when he had lain helpless and immobile in the dark, and clenched his teeth and screwed his eyes tight shut and thought _I can't, I CAN'T. _He tried to think of something glib and kind to say, something that would protect him from that place, turn the focus back on Hank. But in all conscience, he could not. Hank was his friend; he had been honest with his pain, his need; he deserved an honest answer. Charles breathed deeply, and then spoke.

"I carry on because I must, my friend. There are people who need me, who rely on me, people out there that only I can help. I can't abandon them. And so I carry on, and in doing so I find that there is still so much in life that is sweet and worth living for, even now." Hank looked at him, his yellow eyes round with shock.

"I never realised. You always just seemed so – composed." Charles gave a tight laugh laced with pain.

"I have my moments, Hank, believe you me. Just ask Erik. You never had to watch me try to dress myself in the early days. There are quite a few items of clothing hanging from the chandelier in our bedroom to evidence the fact that at times I've been far from composed." Charles smiled, allowing Hank to do so too. The young doctor quirked an eyebrow.

"A chandelier?" Charles shrugged.

"It's my mother's old room." He put his head on one side pensively. "Really ought to re-decorate, now that I come to think of it. And not just by festooning the fixtures with undergarments when I'm in a rage." The two men laughed together at that, and the intensity faded from the atmosphere. Charles leaned forward and put a hand on Hank's massive shoulder again.

"The sweetness of life will come back, Hank, I promise you. Right now, it's hard to see it, but it's still there." Hank smiled – a wan sort of smile, but still. Charles felt the tenor of his mind shifting – a faint flicker of hope sparking amidst the fog of misery that had enveloped Hank ever since they returned from Cuba. He clapped him one more time on the shoulder, then pushed himself behind the desk, drawing the interview to a close.

"I gave Madeline the rest of the day off – poor girl, she's gone through it a bit today. But please do look for her tomorrow – she's still very keen to learn what you have to teach." Hank nodded and made for the doorway, where he paused. Charles felt the hesitancy rolling off him, and then he turned back, making up his mind.

"Professor, when I found her, she was talking to Magneto – I mean Erik. He was filling her head with all sorts of his nonsense, about mutants replacing humans, bastardising your thesis out of its right sense. She was lapping it up; can't you call him off of her?" Charles laughed.

"As it so happens, Hank, it was me who set him on her in the first place! I think he'll be good for her – and her for him, actually. They have a lot to learn from each other. Don't worry about all that business, it's just his way. She's not as impressionable as you might think, and she is anything but stupid. She knows to take him with a pinch of salt." Hank ground his shoe into the carpet, clearly concerned he was on shaky ground but reluctant to let it lie. He muttered something Charles didn't quite hear. He cocked his head, and Hank repeated, louder than he'd meant to:

"He's corrupting her. Just like he did with Raven." Charles sighed. This rivalry between Hank and Erik – although Erik would have scoffed at his calling it a rivalry – was not, as he had hoped it would, resolving itself as time went on. But what could he do? They were both grown adults; he couldn't force them to shake hands and put Raven and Cuba behind them.

"Erik did not 'corrupt' Raven, Hank. If anything, he helped her where I'd always failed – he made her proud to be herself. People change; we don't always like it, but if we love them enough, then we find a way to make room for it." Hank scowled, and Charles winced, thinking of Hank's parents. But he carried on regardless. "Erik would never harm Raven – or Madeline. You have to trust me. I know him better than you, and I know he's not capable of that."

Hank snorted.

"Well you'd know best what he's capable of, I suppose." That stung, and Charles knew it showed in his face. Frustration and remorse warred in Hank's eyes, resolved into shame.

"I'm sorry, professor. I shouldn't have said that." An awkward silence fell between them. "I'll start teaching Madeline tomorrow," Hank supplied lamely, clearly not knowing what else to say. Charles began organising papers on his desk, quite unnecessarily, and tried to keep his tone light.

"Good, thank you. Don't work her too hard, though – she's never had a chance to go to school before, but she's got a voracious mind and a photographic memory – she may not know how to pace herself. Just make sure she gets out and about now and again, that's all." Hank nodded, and then the study door clicked shut behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

_Three months later_

Sunlight spattered off the windows of the mansion as Raven grappled on the grass with her opponent. The shapeshifter was actually having to try - she realized this with a certain appreciative surprise. But although her assailant was powerfully built, he didn't have her agility – she got her calves locked around his throat and one arm twisted behind his back. Teasingly, she tightened her ankles, heard him choke.

"Enough?" she asked.

"Enough!" he rasped, smacking his spare arm on the lawn. She squeezed his neck a little more – just to make sure he knew who was in charge here – then sprang away, lithe as a serpent, leaving him to crash in an ungainly sprawl onto the ground. Alex spat a mouthful of turf out, swore under his breath, then staggered to his feet to shake her hand.

"Nice work, Blue," he said. "You were so good I had to let you win." She cheerfully gave him the finger, then turned back to the watching group of teenagers who constituted their physical training class. They applauded, and she gave a theatrical bow.

"So guys, did anybody spot Mr. Summers' first mistake?" Alex snorted. A girl with light lavender hair stuck her arm up so fast she almost dislocated her shoulder, gazing at Raven with such adoration it was almost embarrassing.

"He dropped his guard when he managed to punch you to the ground, didn't protect his feet." Raven smiled in approval.

"Quite right, Betsy, and so I-?" She looked around expectantly. A little Japanese boy with a scarf wrapped round the bottom half of his face raised his hand. His quiet voice was hard to hear from behind the cloth.

"You took his feet from him, Mystique." She nodded.

"That's right, Hiro. I took his feet from him, because he _gave them to me_. Your enemy will give you things – their feet, an arm, their blind spot. They won't offer them up for long, so _take them _the second you've got the chance. Don't _think_; just do it. You can deal with what comes up next as soon as you've taken the upper hand."

She looked at their admiring faces, all so painfully eager and _young_ suddenly she could hardly stand it. She shouldn't have to be teaching these children how to fight; they should be doing the same things as their human counterparts, ditching class and dating and dicking around out there in the wide world, oblivious as babies. They should be _safe_. She was horrified to feel tears prick her eyes, swallowed them back. Like Erik said, _should_ was a word for those who could afford it. Not for the hunted; not for mutants. She stiffened her spine and brought her hands together in a clap.

"OK then guys, you all did good today. Nice sweep kick, Sarah, and Philip, I saw how you've been working on your mat holds. Keep practicing, and I'll see you all on Wednesday. Dismissed!"

The little knot of students split off into ones and twos, some making for the mansion, others continuing to practice further off on the lawn. Alex gave her a friendly punch on the shoulder, none the worse for the whupping he had taken, and tossed a cheery "get you next time, Blue!" over his shoulder as he swaggered off. Raven sank down onto the grass, lounging on her elbows and trying to let the August sun and the sound of childish voices rising and falling around her soothe away the sadness that her reflections had suddenly thrown up. A shadow fell over her, and she squinted up at Madeline.

The girl was panting, had obviously been running. She was wearing one of the hooded grey tracksuits that had been over-ordered when the 'first class' had arrived, and which consequently constituted about eighty percent of Madeline's wardrobe (in spite of Raven's exhortations to take on more of her abandoned clothes). A look of disappointment suffused Maddy's red face.

"Damn it! Did I miss your class again?" Raven nodded.

"What's Hank doing, tying you to the bench?" Madeline rolled her eyes and slumped down beside her.

"It's not his fault, really, both of us just get carried away – although for some reason, we always seem to get to the most interesting point of our class just before yours are due to begin. But I'm really making progress, you know? He thinks I'll be ready to take my SATs before the fall – although I don't know how that's going to work. I think you need to be officially alive to sit the exam."

Raven slanted a look at Madeline. The two had become close over the last few months, but Raven still knew very little about what Maddy's story was. She knew about the sense of smell, and that Maddy was more than averagely smart – no-one could go from never going to school to practically acing their SATs in a term without something extra about them. But there was more to it than that.

Raven had little patience with Charles's fiat that Maddy's past and Maddy's power were better left alone for the time being. She loved her brother, but he could be such an old woman sometimes! Raven had tried shamelessly to wheedle the truth out of her friend, undeterred by Maddy's demurrals and Charles's chiding. She had reluctantly subsided only when Erik had taken her aside, and told her in no uncertain terms to let it drop. Raven knew to pick her battles, and while bickering with Charles was second nature to her, defying Erik when he looked like that was not.

It didn't really matter anyway – Maddy was a fellow mutant, and needed their help. That was enough for Raven, by and large. Moreover, she genuinely liked the girl; something about her utter lack of expectations and preconceptions made her refreshing company. It didn't stop Raven being curious, however; and if Maddy happened to let something slip, Raven wouldn't be the one to stop her.

Not today, though; Maddy was nudging Raven's elbow, looking pleading.

"Are you too tired for a little one-on-one? I know the class is over, but I really have been practicing my moves – I wanted you to see how I've improved!" Raven got gamely to her feet, pulling Maddy up after her.

"Tired? Are you kidding? I could put that great lump Summers down ten times a day and never break a sweat. Come on then, show me what you got."

The two girls sparred under the sun, Raven holding herself back so that Maddy could get some practice with the basic blocks and punches that were all she could manage at the moment. The girl was naturally small, but her frame hinted at the possibility for strength. However, she was having trouble gaining weight and putting muscle down. She was frustrated by her lack of progress, and the more she came on the more resentful she became of her skinny limbs and underworked physique. She came at Raven now with all the fury and commitment of that frustration, her memory of the techniques perfect but her lack of power betraying her, and after half an hour she was soaked in sweat. When Raven accidentally went too far and knocked her off her feet, the girl lay gasping on the grass, eyes clenched tight in exasperation.

Raven sat down beside Maddy, patted her on one heaving shoulder.

"You're better. Really, the practice is paying off." The girl shrugged.

"Not good enough. Not yet. I want to be strong, want to be able to take care of myself. I don't want anyone to be able to-" she broke off, once again diverting herself from what Raven was sure was a reference to her mysterious past. With a deep breath, Maddy rolled over, gave Raven a grateful smile.

"Thank you for helping me. I know it must be boring for you, blocking these baby punches. But I really am trying to get better, and I couldn't do it without you." Raven grinned back.

"It's nothing, really. And boring? What do you think it is, getting smacked around by Alex all the time – a treat?" Madeline laughed, pulled herself up to sit beside Raven.

Raven remembered the first time Maddy had met Alex: she had been so intimidated by his bully-boy humour. Over time she had realized how much of his bluster was insecurity, how much of his roughness and making fun was the natural consequence of having passed his formative years in prison, in solitary, with no-one but his guards to model his manhood on. Raven remembered the occasion when she had overheard Alex making a joke of Charles and Erik's relationship to a cluster of laughing students. She had nearly broken his jaw in the fight that followed; but the next day he'd come to her and apologized, even offered to confess what he had said to Charles and Erik and ask their forgiveness too.

"Well, maybe the Prof, anyway," he had qualified. "He's done so much for me, and I owed him better than that. I owe him everything, really. But Erik? He's not a totally bad guy I guess, but I figure that if I told him the stupid things I said, he'd probably just crush me with an anvil." Raven had been merciful and accepted his apology on Charles's behalf (no need to have upset him, after all). After that, Alex had tried to rein in his more uncouth impulses, cutting out the bad language and off-colour jokes in front of the younger kids, and acting with such deference to Charles that Raven thought it rather sweet. Of course he still teased people now and then; but he made sure it was always people who could take it – people like the almost horizontally laid-back Sean, or Raven herself. Never Charles. Never the weak or the defenceless; never Hank. For that alone, Raven was willing to forgive Alex a lot.

Madeline was talking about her science classes with Hank, tossing out polysyllabic gibberish with gay abandon. Raven tried to compose her face into an expression of interest, but found it hard to be as compelled by solutions and formulae as Hank – and obviously Maddy – were. Her attention was wandering when what Maddy said next brought her up short.

"Raven? What's the problem with you and Hank?" Raven stared at her questioningly.

"Whenever I mention your name, he goes all quiet and – sort of – angry? But not angry, really; sad. I don't know. He smells different, anyway. It's weird. And you as well; whenever I talk about him to you, your eyes go somewhere else. I know it's none of my business, but – you're both such good friends to me. And you've known each other much longer than I've known either of you. But I never see you together. I just wondered, is all." Taking note of Raven's stricken expression, Maddy began to backtrack. "Feel totally free to tell me where to get off if I'm out of line-" but Raven was shaking her head.

"It's fine, Maddy. It's just – it's difficult. With me and Hank. Hah. 'Me and Hank'. There never was a 'me and Hank' really; we never got a chance. His damn 'cure' soon saw to that." She could hear the bitterness in her own voice; but it felt good to let it out, after all these months of tiptoeing around Hank, trying to heed Charles's advice to give him space, to give him time, to let him come to terms – with what? With being what he was? Her frustration was tinged with tenderness, which only made her angrier with him.

"He told me that he made the serum from your DNA, the one that – didn't work. Does he – blame you, or something?" Maddy asked. Raven shook her head again.

"Oh no, he doesn't blame me. After all, that wouldn't be _fair_. I told him _not _to take it. And whatever else he may be, Hank is always scrupulously _fair_. Damn him. He just can't stand to look at me. He likes to try and pretend to himself he hasn't changed, or that he can go back, or even that he could still find a cure, could become _human_. When he sees me walking around, mutant and proud, it reminds him of everything he wishes he wasn't. And he feels like I betrayed him, I guess. It was supposed to be the two of us, two freaks who wanted to be normal. If Erik hadn't come along and set me straight, then I guess that's how we would be – two frightened little self-hating mutants, clinging to each other for comfort. But I can't go back to being that girl. I know who I am now. I've got nothing to be ashamed of. And I can't pretend to wish I wasn't what I am just to make him feel less alone. No more than he can pretend to love himself the way that he is, to love _me_ the way that I am-" Raven broke off, surprised by how quickly it had all flooded out, her hurt, her anger, her sense of betrayal. Maddy put her hand over Raven's, gave it a comforting squeeze.

"You still love him." It wasn't a question. Raven ducked her head, sighed.

"I don't know. I think so, sometimes. But it couldn't work. Not while he's still denying who he is. And anyway, a war is coming. Even if things were perfect between me and Hank, it's not exactly a time to be making plans." The bleakness with which she said these words seemed to silence Maddy for a moment. She just squeezed her friend's blue hand again, apparently brooding on Raven's words, words Raven already regretted. Not that she didn't think that it was true; Charles might be in denial, but she still woke up some nights with the bottom dropping out of her stomach, seeing in her dreams the sky full of missiles aimed at her, her family, her friends, just because they were mutants. She had seen what she could expect from humanity. She wasn't going to be caught napping when the inevitable confrontation came.

But true or not, it was a lot to burden Maddy with. Raven had been given to understand that she'd had precious little security in her life until now. The safety of the school might be illusory, but it was an illusion Maddy was entitled to, for a while at least. She opened her mouth to say something to dispel her grim prediction, and then almost swallowed her tongue when the air cracked like a thunderbolt and Azazel appeared in a cloud of red smoke inches from where they sat.

The scarlet mutant turned and saw her, a dazzlingly white smile splitting his face, his hands spread wide in apparent delight.

"Ah, _siniy ved'ma_!" he exclaimed. She put a hand over her chest, and eyed him sourly.

"Jeez, Azazel, can't you get a bell or something? You almost gave me a heart attack!" The Russian's face fell.

"A thousand sorries, _moy dorogoy_. I just come to bring a little girl from asylum to Professor. Very bad place; very powerful girl. She's with him now. I wanted also to check how is Vasiliy, boy I bring in springtime from Donetsk. Xavier said he is in your class?" She nodded, getting to her feet.

"The class is over. But he's fine. Settled in well, making new friends. In fact, he's just over there, with Philip and Andrew, under the tree." She pointed. Azazel glanced over, but couldn't seem to keep his eyes off of her face for long.

"_Da_. Perhaps I will go say hello. It is good to see you, Raven. Always. And this is your friend?" he said, suddenly noticing Madeline, who was staring in awe at him. Raven nodded, pushed her forward.

"Yes, this is Maddy. She joined us a few months ago. Madeline, this is Azazel." Maddy put a hand out nervously.

"Hello." Azazel shook her hand courteously.

"_Privet_, Maddy. Is pleasure to meet you." But he was already looking past her, back at Raven, pinning her with a gaze so intense she felt obscurely uncomfortable. "Perhaps we speak later, _siniy ved'ma_. _Do svidaniya_." Then with a nod to Madeline, he flicked his tail and vanished once again, only to reappear in a puff of smoke amidst the startled boys under the tree. Maddy whistled.

"_Jeeeee-_sus. Just when I think I've seen the coolest mutant power. Damn, I wish I could read minds, or bend metal, or change into other people, or pop out of nowhere like that! As it is, I can barely throw a punch. Some people really luck out with this mutant X gene, huh?" She sounded despondent. But then she looked sideways at Raven, a mischievous look in her eye.

"Someone's got an admirer." Raven grimaced.

"What? Get out of here!" Maddy rolled her eyes.

"Oh come on, Raven! If even I can see it…" Raven shrugged.

"I don't think so. I mean, Azazel? He's pretty much a murderer." Maddy's eyes went round, stared over at the polite, immaculately dressed red man as he talked chummily with a pale little boy who looked delighted to see him.

"What?" She said incredulously. Raven sighed, and gave her a quick run-down of the history of the Hellfire Club, the attack on the CIA compound, the crew of the Russian cargo ship (leaving out the more complicated stuff about Erik's vendetta against Shaw and Charles's maiming). Maddy looked shocked – as well she might, Raven reflected. Nobody just meeting Azazel, who was invariably good-natured and courteous, would ever suspect he could be such a brutal killer. But she could still remember her terror as he approached their little band in the CIA facility, a feral grin on his face as he dropped man after man out of the sky, the short swords he always had with him in his hands.

"So what's he doing here?" Madeline asked, eyeing him warily. Raven sighed.

"After Shaw died, Charles asked the rest of them – Emma, Janos, and Azazel – if they wanted to join us here. Had to bust Emma out of jail first, of course – Erik enjoyed that part. Didn't take long for him to realize he couldn't stand her, though. Nor could anyone else. She didn't last long, was gone God knows where within the week. Janos stuck it out a bit longer, but he never really fitted in here. I think he went back to Hungary in the end. Azazel never _joined _us, really. Charles keeps a room free for him, but he comes and goes. That's why you've never seen him here before – he disappears for weeks and months, then pops up out of nowhere, usually with some kid that Charles found on Cerebro and asked Azazel to look out for. It's not like you can send him on a mission, not really. He just turns up when he wants, does what he wants. Seems friendly enough, though. He and Erik get on like a house on fire."

"And Charles?" Maddy asked. Raven scowled.

"Charles drives me crazy. He can't stand Azazel really – can't forget what he did to the CIA guys, or those Russian sailors. But he's determined that reconciliation is the only way to peace, so he makes himself be civil anyway. You can practically make ice cubes in mid-air when they're together. Sometimes I wish Charles would just go ahead and get mad, throw something, you know? It's not like he doesn't have reasons to. But he's just so God damn _good_ the whole time it's enough to make you sick." The irritated affection in Raven's tone took a lot of the sting out of her words. Maddy smiled indulgently, turned the conversation back to Azazel.

"So how do you feel about him? Are you more in Erik's camp, or Charles's?" Raven put her head on one side, considering.

"I'm not too sure. I mean, I asked him once, about the CIA attack. He said that Shaw had told them we were being held against our will, that they were going to torture us. He thought that he was on a rescue mission; not that that would justify how much he was enjoying it, of course." Maddy frowned.

"Do you believe it?" Raven nodded.

"Yes I do. I know it sounds unlikely, but you have to know him. In some ways, he's as naïve as a child. I don't think he can have spent a lot of time around people until Shaw recruited him, not looking like he does. He never lies – doesn't seem to know how. So he believes what you tell him. And he's kind of idealistic – he buys into the big ideas, communism, mutant supremacy, whatever. He's not a fan of subtlety, or compromise. I think that's another reason why he and Charles can't get along. Chalk and cheese."

"So he obviously likes you. Do you like him?" Raven frowned. It wasn't as if she hadn't noticed Azazel's interest in her. Before she'd come to terms with her mutation, she had spent her life inhabiting the skin of a deliberately desirable woman – she knew what it meant when a man looked at her like Azazel did. And it wasn't as if he made the slightest effort to hide his desire. She had to give him points for persistence – after all, she had dropped a chunk of sub on him back in Cuba, and had industriously avoided being alone with him as soon as she had worked out how he felt. It wasn't, she insisted to herself, that she was afraid of him. Not anymore. It was just that she didn't know how to react to somebody wanting her – really _her_, in her natural form. Least of all Azazel.

"I don't really know what I feel. OK, he's done some pretty awful things – but so has Erik, and I don't know where I'd be without him now. They both had good reasons, or thought they did. But he's so wild, you know? I don't feel like he's someone I could trust. Not that he would betray us. It's just one day you'd turn around and he'd be gone, just like that. There's no holding him down." She shook her head, suddenly aware that she had given away how much she had been thinking about Azazel. "And anyway, all that aside, it's hard to get past how he looks." Maddy raised her eyebrows a fraction. Raven gave a slightly shamefaced smile.

"I know right? Me, of all people, discriminating over someone's looks. Give him his due, he's a snappy dresser; and some of those scars are kind of sexy. But come on Mads, he looks like the devil!" The two girls laughed together guiltily. Composing herself, Maddy asked:

"Do _you _think he's the devil?" Raven watched as Azazel played with the children, teleporting them high into the air, letting them drop, then popping into place to catch them before anybody could hit the ground. It was like a very high stakes juggling trick, and Charles would probably have a fit if he saw; but Raven smiled at the delighted shrieks from the boys, and Azazel's harsh laughter booming across the lawn. He met her gaze suddenly, and grinned like a tiger. She shook her head.

"No. No, I don't."

Raven pulled herself together. Never mind if Azazel _did_ intrigue her; no matter if she _was_ flattered by his attention. Like she had said, this was no time for making plans like that. "Come on Maddy, we've still got a couple of hours before dinner – let's run through those attack routines again." They resumed their practicing, but Raven's mind was wandering, and before long she'd accidentally pinned Maddy again.

"Done showing off, Mystique?" Raven saw Maddy's face light up at the sound of that sardonic voice.

"Erik!" The younger girl sprang up, moved to meet the metal bender. He was dressed in the same tracksuit that Maddy was. He looked taken aback by Maddy's eager greeting – he still wasn't accustomed to the easy affection Maddy doled out to anybody she liked.

"You're back! We missed you. Are you well?" He nodded his assent.

"Are you ready for a run?" he asked, jerking his head up the path that cut a circuit around the house. She nodded agreeably, turned back to Raven.

"See you at dinner?" Raven nodded, watched as the unlikely pair fell into step and jogged away, leaving the blue girl alone with her thoughts.


	10. Chapter 10

Madeline jogged alongside Erik, trying not to wheeze. She was finally getting stronger, she decided, as her breathing began to settle into the familiar rhythm. A month ago even, an afternoon training with Raven would have wiped her out. Now she could take the almost pleasant ache suffusing her incipient muscles, could keep pace with Erik's long strides that would have once outstripped her.

They had started running together almost by accident. Raven had suggested a combination of strength training and cardio for Maddy, so she had started running round the grounds every evening. And kept bumping into Erik doing the same.

At first, he had seemed irritated by her presence, and she had done her best to hang back if she saw him up ahead of her - which was a bit futile, as he would then lap her ten minutes later, glaring at her as he barrelled past. After a while, however, she noticed that he was falling into step with her, running just ahead or just behind. She found she liked to hear the echoing crunch of his tread on the gravel, the metronomic huffing of his breath, in time with hers - it was almost companionable.

The one day, he was waiting for her by the kitchen door. They had made that first circuit together in a wary silence, parted without exchanging a word. Gradually, he unbent enough to give her tips on her breathing and pace; she would pass some innocuous remark about the weather or her day, try not to take it personally if he just grunted or didn't respond. And ever so slowly, conversations began to bloom between them as they ran – disagreements about the books that Charles had given Madeline to read; debates about current affairs – after so many isolated years, Madeline was a voracious consumer of the newspapers; and eventually, tentatively, they began to discuss the demons that they had in common – not directly at first, but by oblique reference.

They didn't speak of surgeries, experiments. Instead they spoke of shared dislikes – of feeling trapped; of vaccine shots; of people leaning over them. They spoke abstractedly of loneliness, Erik reluctant to give himself away, Madeline anxious not to push him back into himself. More recently, they spoke about their families – or rather, Erik did. Maddy only had her sister to talk about, which she did with such wistful sadness Erik hadn't asked her about it again. But over time, she learnt about his huge extended family of cousins and aunts. His eccentric bachelor Uncle Chaim, who had owned a fancy restaurant that he wanted Erik to take over when he grew up. His beautiful older sister Rut, who had just got her first job as a secretary when the Nazis came to power. His stern, hard-working father, greatly respected by the Jewish community of Dusseldorf.

And finally, haltingly, he had told her about his mother, Essie. How she had cared for their whole family, had been its beating heart. How when the soldiers came to their neighbourhood, breaking doors down, herding people out into the street like cattle, she had stood in front of Erik, shielding him with her own trembling body. How she had defied them when they tried to tear the two of them apart boarding the train, not even letting go of him when they had hit her with a rifle butt. How she had given him her share of the meagre supply of food and water on the long journey, tried to keep his spirits up, assured him that his father and sister, who had been out at work when the order came to clear the ghetto, must have gotten away (they hadn't, had been shipped off to another camp and killed, as Erik was too later learn). How she had never let him see her cry, until that awful moment at the gate when he'd been dragged away from her, forced to go with the men. How she had been murdered and why.

Madeline had listened as he had described Klaus Schmidt, the crude way he had tried to drag Erik's power to the surface by threatening his mother, how he had tossed her life aside like it was nothing when it had become clear it wouldn't work. She was reminded powerfully of Fiskel – that same cold-eyed pragmatism, that same callous disregard for anything that didn't serve his purposes. She had tried to empathise with Erik's rage, to find an answer for him when he demanded: "Why aren't you more angry about what was done to you? You went through just the same, for longer. Your family taken away, your body brutalised for others' gain. Why is it you don't think of revenge?"

She had given this question the thought that it deserved, sat down atop a fallen tree by the side of the track. He had sat beside her, watching her intently. Finally, she spoke.

"I'm angrier for you, I think. For me, I'm mostly sorry. Before I came here – my life was so _thin_. So sad. First those young years preparing to be used, hardly any identity at all. Then growing up in hospital – the same four walls, the same bland food, the same vacuous TV, the same three shit books to read for thirteen years – it was barely a life at all, really. But nothing was ever _taken _from me. I never had a family, a future planned, never lost anyone I loved who loved me because of Fiskel. Well, except Jessie I suppose, but if it hadn't been for him, I would have lost her anyway. I guess, for that at least, I'll always have to be _grateful_ to him." Her mouth twisted around the word, but she went on. "It's not the same for you. You had everything. And Schmidt took it all away. It's no wonder you're angry. You should be." She drew a deep breath.

"But you can't hold on to it forever, Erik. Any more than I can just hold on to feeling sorry for the stunted person that I was. If we do that, then we might as well never have gotten away – we're still as trapped as we were, it's just it's our own minds locking us in, as much as those four walls ever did. It's like my running, my working out with Mystique. I know I'm not as good as I should be; I know that's because I spent the years I should have been out growing - getting strong - strapped to a hospital bed, getting cut on. It makes me so frustrated, thinking of all that wasted time. But I can't let that stop me moving forward; I can't let it stop me being happy, stop me running, stop me fighting – no matter how bad I may be at it. If I do that, I'm just letting him win."

She had said all this in a rush, expecting him to interrupt, to argue, or to simply get mad and stalk away. But he had looked thoughtful, not angry. He had attempted a sarcastic smile.

"Are you sure Charles hasn't parachuted into your head?" he jibed. But she could see her words had affected him.

"You might want to try listening to him. If anything could help you to let go of all that anger, I would have thought it would be him, the very fact of him. I mean, think about it: if the war had never happened; if you had taken over your uncle's restaurant in Germany; if you had never met Klaus Schmidt – you'd never have met the professor either, would you?" Erik had blinked, and she realised this had never occurred to him before.

They had left it at that, and from then on their running chats had dwelt on other, less intense topics. But since that day, she had thought she'd noticed something lighter about Erik, a freedom to his manner with her that hadn't been there before. She knew she'd broken through a wall, that he trusted her now as he didn't trust many people; but she was also aware that the bridges between Erik and the people that he loved were fragile, and she took care not to burden hers with more than it could bear.

Today, for example, she knew that there would be no small talk, no playful quarrelling. She almost wondered why he'd come got her at all – he was clearly unhappy, in a way she hadn't seen before. He ran as if he was trying to punish the ground for being there, and a muscle in his jaw kept twitching. He looked tired, and old, and sad, and so angry it almost frightened her. So she ran silently in step beside him, hoping to just get through the run without him blowing up.

Unfortunately, her hamstring had other ideas. With a sudden cry of pain, she collapsed onto the ground, clutching her left leg to try and quell the spasms in the overworked muscle. Erik almost tripped over her.

"Are you alright?" he asked, alarmed. She nodded, gritting her teeth.

"Cramp," she managed, pulling herself up to a sitting position.

Erik knelt down before her and said brusquely "Let me see." Then he began to massage her hamstring, briskly working the stiffened muscle until it began to soften.

At first all Maddy felt was pain, and then a heated glow began to spread from Erik's strong, capable hands, a glow that radiated through her whole body, settled in the pit of her stomach. She found that she was staring at his hands, trying to disassociate them from the powerful sensation sweeping through her.

She felt like she had the time that Charles had played her some opera – Bizet's _The Pearl Fishers_, he'd told her, _Au fond du temple saint_. It was a duet about friendship, he said, two men agreeing to renounce their love for the same woman and remain true to each other. She couldn't understand a word, because it was in French. But as the music had risen up in velvet waves around her, the horns stirring below the voices, the beauty of the sound and the passion of the singers passing through her like some slow electric shock, she had become almost terrified by its physical effect on her. Her heart was pounding, the blood rushed up into her face, her eyes slipped shut to try and hold back tears that started in them without her knowing why.

She had never heard music, real music, before, only the tinny soundtracks of soap operas or melodramatic movie scores. She hadn't known how to handle the wave of foreign feeling that took her over.

And she didn't know how to handle the ripples of alien pleasure Erik's touch provoked in her now.

Maddy's body had never been her own – she had spent her life being poked and prodded, pricked and probed, cut open and stitched up by a cast of strangers. But for all that, she had very little experience of being touched – really touched, for the sake of touching. Kisses, hugs, strokes, hand-holding. After Jessie, before the School, her body had been treated like a tool, like a site, and that is how she'd come to think of it herself – detached from _her_, the real Madeline. She felt no special love or hate for it – this thin, scarred vessel for her soul. Even her training with Raven and her running worked on that principle – she did it simply to hone the container, to better protect that essential self.

But now the barrier was breaking down, her body overriding her mind just as, when listening to the opera, her mind had overridden her body, making her uncomfortably aware of their concomittance, their inseparability. It was as if Erik were reaching right through her skin and seizing hold of everything that made her who she was, holding her soul between his hands. If she were to give in to it, she was certain, he would be able to read the tumult of her emotions like Braille from her treacherous body. She jerked away.

"Thank you. It feels much better now." He had to hear the panic in her voice, she thought, the high unnaturalness of it. But as she pulled her knees up to her chin and glanced apprehensively at him, she realised that he was so still deeply wrapped up in his own unhappy reflections that he hadn't noticed hers at all. She forced herself to get a grip, pushed her confusion firmly aside and put a hand on her friend's shoulder.

"Erik, what's the matter? You seem so…"

He answered so readily that she realised how much he needed to talk about it. He began pacing back and forth in front of her, spitting his words out as if they tasted bad.

"I just heard that Azazel had to break a seven year old girl out of a high security mental hospital is what's the matter. The girl can see the future, so her parents decided she was insane, checked her into the madhouse, and threw away the key. In Ancient Greece, she would have been a high priestess, worshipped, exalted. In this so called land of the free, this age of tolerance and equality, they lock her up like an animal."

She nodded, understanding. "I heard – how awful. But she's alright now?" Erik snorted.

"Well, they threw her in there when she was just four, so she barely has speech. Her family abandoned her. She's been left to rely on the mercy of strangers, to be rescued and raised by her own kind. So no, Madeline, I don't think she's 'alright'." She shrank back at the venom in his tone. But then he turned to look at her, and she could see that he was clinging to his anger as a shield against despair. "_I'm _not alright," he admitted, and sank back down beside her with a sigh.

They were sitting at the crest of a low hill behind the house. Madeline sometimes came up here, just to look at the sturdy grey stone building, nestling in the green palm of the grounds like an egg in a nest, so sheltered, so safe. Erik stared at it now as well, but his face evidenced none of the comfort Maddy drew from the sight.

"Sometimes I don't know what we're _doing _here. Charles goes to Cerebro, looks for suffering mutant kids to give a home to – but it's not enough; it can never be enough. One life here, one life there, snatched from the shadows into the light. What about all the rest of them? Not just the abandoned children, but all of the mutants all around the world, living in fear, hating themselves, afraid of their powers? What about the ones not even born? We should be making the world a better place for them to come into, not just cleaning up the mess of lives the humans make! We should be securing the future for _them_, for all of us." He paused for breath, exhaled an angry sigh. She had heard him talk like this before, but never so vehemently. It had to be something more than the child, she realised. She waited, let the silence pull his words into it.

"Charles," he finally said, bewildered frustration lacing the name. "He was so damn _satisified _with himself. For bringing in another waif out of the wind. He isn't stupid; he's the smartest man I know. So how can he not see that we're just fiddling while Rome burns?" The reference escaped her, but his meaning didn't. She opened her mouth, then shut it again, not knowing what to say, who to defend.

She had never made progress on this point, caught between Charles and Erik's views on how the cause of their kind was better to be advanced. By instinct, she was drawn to Charles's… well, humanitarianism probably wasn't the right word. But the gentle, optimistic telepath's idefatigible faith in the possibility of coexistence – of integration, dialogue and peace – was extremely alluring to her. And Erik's confused evolutionary arguments failed to stand up to even the basic biology she had assimilated in her lessons with Hank.

However, when she found herself making Charles's case to Erik, or more often to Mystique, she was finding it harder and harder to patch the holes in the argument, to counter their ever-growing store of evidence that the more humans knew about mutants, the more they seemed to fear, hate and exploit them. And so for once she didn't disagree with Erik. She stared down at the school, bathed in soft, lilac light, and felt chilly tendrils of fear curl round her heart, the seeds of which had been sown that afternoon by Raven with her prophesies of war. Erik pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed the dark circles under his eyes.

"He just doesn't _understand_. The danger we're all in. What we're going to have to do to survive. He's always been able to hide, behind his human facade, behind his money. He doesn't know what it is to be marked out, persecuted, hunted down." His mouth tightened, one fist clenching around a clump of grass. "And that's just not _good _enough, not any more! We _need _him to lead us, to fight for us. He could do so much – he could win this war before it ever begins. Control the minds of a few key players, eliminate our main antagonists, place our people where decisions are being made - he could do most of it within a week, from his study. But he's too squeamish about the humans' free will to secure our safety. And then he has the gall to act disappointed in_ me _for simply pointing out the truth – that peace is not an option, just a delaying tactic, and that while we bury ourselves out here in the country the humans are preparing to wipe us out!"

Madeline blinked. She'd never heard Erik so openly castigate Charles before. She knew, of course, that their world views were almost diametrically opposed. But that didn't seem to matter when weighed against the steady certainty of their love for each other. You couldn't be long with the two of them without being drawn into it, like a meteor into the gravitational pull of the sun. The way Erik's eyes followed Charles around a room covetously. The way Charles always seemed to hear and appreciate the humour in Erik's acid asides that put everybody else's noses out of joint. The way, when they thought themselves unobserved, Charles would take hold of a fistful of Erik's shirt and yank the tall, forbidding man onto his lap, provoking an undignified yelp followed by rumbling laughter. They way Erik's eyes softened only when they were gazing into Charles's. What did it matter if they argued constantly and furiously about everything from class sizes to the choice of wine to have with dinner? The love that bound them, wrapped around them, seemed stronger than any division could be. Maddy relied upon that certainty, as much as any of the younger children, who gigglingly called the pair "Dad and Dad." And so she was alarmed when Erik repeated "He doesn't understand; not just the way that things are; the way _I _am. Sometimes I think the only man who ever really understood me, or understood what we are up against, is dead."

"Who do you mean?" she asked. Erik's eyes hardened.

"Klaus Schmidt. Or Sebastian Shaw, as he was calling himself at the time when I killed him."

The air left her lungs as if she had been punched.

Maddy had never revised her initial impression that Erik was a dangerous man. No matter how close they had become, or how much they had in common, she had retained (as usual) a perfect memory of the moment they had met. She knew without a doubt that at the moment he had thought she posed a threat to Charles, he would have killed her without a second thought. And Raven, Hank and Charles had all at times alluded – with defensiveness, bitterness and sorrow respectively – to things that Erik had done. Even so, she was shocked, saddened. But Schmidt? If anyone deserved to die… but wait. What did he mean about Shaw?

"Sebastian Shaw? Raven told me about him – the leader of the Hellfire Club. But he was a mutant! That was _Schmidt_?" Erik nodded.

"That's how Charles and I met – both of us chasing Shaw, for different reasons. Me because he killed my mother, Charles because he planned to wipe out the whole of humanity. So you were right, that thing you said to me a while ago – if it hadn't have been for Shaw, I wouldn't be here now, with Charles. But equally, if it hadn't have been for what Shaw did to me and mine back when he was calling himself Klaus Schmidt, Charles and I might have been on opposite sides of that fight." He sighed, then shook his head.

"No, I don't really believe that. That might have been how it started, but he'd have gotten to me in the end, damn him, with his eyes and his voice in my head and his bloody _goodness_. I could never have resisted Charles, not for long."

The tortured tenderness in Erik's tone robbed Maddy of speech. She felt as if she was looking at him naked, felt guilty somehow, as if she was seeing what she should not, what she had no right to. He was staring into the distance, no longer seeing her, almost talking to himself.

"It's funny; we're so unalike. But from the minute that we met, I felt like we had never been apart – like he had always been there, hiding somewhere in the dark at the back of my mind, and someone had just turned the light on. It was supposed to be the two of us – side by side, fighting for our people. But then in one stupid moment, I ruined everything. Now I'm a murderer, and he's in a wheelchair, and I feel like every day we're getting further from that future that should have been ours, walking into this wrong life, becoming the wrong people. I f we could just get back to that moment, before I killed Shaw with Charles's mind inside him, before he _stupidly _threw himself in front of that bullet to protect me-" He broke off, agitated.

"That's most of what it is, I think. It must be – that he is afraid. He's lost so much, because of war, because of me. He's frightened to lose more. So he pretends the battle can be headed off, that conflict isn't coming for us whether we instigate it or not. I could have persuaded him, in time, if-" He surprised her by suddenly seizing her hand.

"If you could only help him, help us, if your gift can give Charles back his legs, if we could only get back to the start-" He broke off abruptly. He actually covered his mouth with his hand, obviously aghast at what he'd said.

All the blood drained into Maddy's feet, leaving her cold and tingling. Her eyes went round with shock and horror.

_Stupid. _She had been so _stupid_.

Erik, looking appalled, gripped her hand tighter, tight enough to bruise. "Madeline, I didn't mean – It isn't what you think. Charles would never – _I _would never-"

She pulled away from him with all her strength, began to run. She heard him shouting after her in a panicked voice she barely recognised: "Madeline, wait, please!"

But she was gone.


	11. Chapter 11

Charles was preparing to indulge in a treasured ritual when there was a knock at his study door. He shut his eyes and reached out gently for the presence, smiled as he registered a friend.

"Come in Madeline."

Madeline came in, shutting the door behind her with unwonted care. He grinned at her, waved her into the chair across his desk.

"Good evening my dear. Please bear with me a moment – there's just a little something that I need to do, and then you'll have my full attention." He fiddled with the dial of his wireless. "You might enjoy this."

She looked at him without comprehension. Suddenly, the crackle and hiss resolved itself into a tune – stately but sprightly, ponderous but enchanting. Charles leaned his head back on the rest of his wheelchair, eyes closing in pleasure at the familiar sound. After three minutes, it faded away, and a cut-glass British voice began to recite:

"Viking, southeast 4 or 5, becoming variable 2 or 3. Slight, occasionally moderate at first. Showers at first, fog patches. Moderate or good, occasionally very poor. North Utsire, South Utsire, variable 3 or 4. Smooth or slight. Fair. Good. Forties variable 3 or 4. Slight. Fog banks. Moderate, occasionally very poor. Cromarty, variable becoming east 3 or 4, occasionally 5 later…"

Charles opened his eyes again, saw Madeline was looking at him in complete bewilderment. He almost giggled.

"What _is _it?" she asked.

"The Shipping Forecast. British institution. The sailors tune in after midnight to find out which way the wind is blowing, as it were. Good, isn't it?" She frowned, as the voice soothingly intoned:

"Sole, Lundy, Fastnet, south or southwest 4 or 5, becoming variable 3 or 4. Slight, occasionally moderate…"

"But what on earth does it mean?" Charles shrugged negligently.

"Absolutely no idea. It could be prophesying Armageddon for all I can make out. But I find it oddly relaxing. Used to listen to it in the dorm at boarding school in England when I couldn't get to sleep – you don't know what insomnia is until you've been forced to listen in to the torrid dreams of a bakers' dozen of randy teenage boys. The tune would send me off all by itself some times. _Sailing By_, it's called. Do you like it?" She nodded, looking slightly dazed.

"So why are you listening to it now?" He smiled.

"I listen to it every evening, if I can. It's good to have a reason to take five minutes out of a busy day, a time to simply stop thinking, or at least to cut the kite-strings of thought. I'd recommend it to anybody. No matter how troubled you are, it's pleasant to imagine that out on the open sea, the winds keep blowing back and forth the same way as they ever have, the tide is treading its old pattern – in some sense, somewhere, all's right with the world." He smiled beatifically at her. "You think that I'm going round the twist, don't you? Erik certainly did when he caught me. But there, I'm an English professor – if I wasn't a bit eccentric, there'd probably be something wrong with me!"

Charles had become belatedly aware of an emotional tumult approaching them. He barely had time to register it before Erik burst into the study, breathing hard and looking utterly dismayed.

* * *

"Charles, I've done something so stupid. You can hang me out to dry later, but please, you have to help me find her now, help me to persuade her to come back-" Erik stopped, almost swallowed his tongue when he saw the subject of his hurried confession sitting in the Chesterfield chair by Charles's desk. A tidal wave of relief washed through the metal bender, only to subside abruptly at Charles's expression as he gleaned from Erik's panicked mind what he had blurted out to Madeline. Charles's usually benevolent face set into a glare, all the more intimidating for its rarity.

"Erik, get out. I need to talk to Madeline, I see. I think you've done enough damage for one evening." Erik opened his mouth to protest, but Madeline beat him to it.

"There's no need, professor, really. He ought to hear what I've come here to say." Her voice was utterly unreadable, and that in and of itself made Erik's heart sink. Madeline was always so open, so trusting – this guarded tone was new, and boded badly for her intentions. _My fault, my fault, my fault_, he thought, leaning against a bookcase heavily as the reality bore in on him – that with a few careless words, he had ruined everything, had hurt Madeline, and worst of all, destroyed Charles's chances of ever prevailing upon her to help him. He looked helplessly at his lover, expecting condemnation but praying for forgiveness. But Charles wasn't even looking at him. His full attention was on Madeline, and Erik knew that none of his concern was for himself – the pity in his eyes was all for her, for the betrayal of her trust.

"Very well, then, my dear, Erik will listen, as will I. But please, before you start, let me assure you that your place in this house, this family, is _not _contingent on your gift. You have a home here simply because you deserve it, and you need it. You have a friend in me simply because I care about you very much. I know how Erik made it sound, but you must believe me when I tell you we expect nothing from you. You're obviously free to go whenever and wherever you may choose; but please don't go because of a misunderstanding. Please don't let Erik's moment of weakness rob you of the safety you have here, the friends you've found, the future you could have with us." The earnestness of Charles's words impressed Erik; but would they convince her?

Madeline's face gave nothing away, and her voice remained neutral as she asked: "Does Mystique know about me? Does Hank? Is that why they've been so good to me – because they were hoping I'd agree to heal you, to go back under the knife?" Charles looked appalled, shook his head vehemently.

"No, Maddy, absolutely not. I promise you. No-one knows a thing, just me and Erik. We would never have given you away without your permission. I swear, we have never lied to you." He reached across the desk for her hand, a pleading gesture which tore Erik's heart. "Raven and Hank have been your friends because they like and respect you. Just as I do. They never need to know what you can do. You never have to do it ever again. You must believe me." She hesitated for what seemed like a thousand years to Erik. And then her shoulders sagged. She reached out, put her hand in Charles's.

"I do believe you, Charles." Charles gave a huge sigh of relief, squeezed her hand gratefully.

"Then can we put all this behind us? You must forgive Erik – it's been hard for him, for both of us, my – change in circumstances. He has been putting too much hope into your ability, but that is only because he cares for me so much, not because he doesn't care about you. He would never have tried to make you do something you didn't want to do." The expressionless façade cracked for a moment, and Erik was chastened to see a look of hurt flash across Madeline's face.

"He's pretended to be my friend; pretended to care about me; when the whole time, he just wanted my blood. For you."

Erik was surprised by the blade of pain her words lodged in his heart, was startled to discover just how much she'd come to mean to him, this odd, open, giving girl who had asked so little of him, accepted him without question, even found in him something to like. Somehow she had snuck behind the walls he had put up around himself; how else explain his idiotic lapse, blurting out his doubts and his hopes to her, he who always maintained such iron control, such reserve? He found he couldn't bear for her to all that meant nothing, that he was no better than Fiskel, than Schmidt. He opened his mouth to say something in protest, but Charles shot him a warning look, and he shut it again. Madeline hadn't withdrawn her hand, and suddenly leaned forward across the desk, looking earnestly into Charles's eyes.

"I'm sorry, we can't put it behind us."

Although Erik had thought he was prepared for this, the words fell like a blow on him. His shoulders curled inward instinctively, and he turned to face the window, staring out of it without seeing the rolling lawns, the gently swaying trees, seeing only the death of hope. His knuckles wrapped around the window ledge, as he tried not to cry – that would be unforgivable, he knew, to burden Maddy with that on top of everything else. His jaw tightened against the burning lump in his throat, then dropped open as she continued.

"I want to try the procedure. I want to try and help you walk again."

Charles didn't say a word for almost a full minute. Madeline's offer hung in the air, and Erik felt very strongly that he mustn't speak, he mustn't move, he mustn't even breathe, or else it would evaporate in a golden cloud. Charles drew in a deep breath.

"This is no small thing you are offering me. I need to be completely sure that this is what you want; that you don't feel under any duress." Erik went rigid, expecting the worst, for her to repent of her decision.

"I know what I'm doing. I'm not saying it's going to be easy; I'm scared to go through that again, to make myself so vulnerable. I'm scared of other people knowing what I can do. I'm scared that it won't work; I'm scared it will, and that once you're better you won't need me here anymore." Charles started to protest, but she cut him off gently.

"Please, let me finish. Like I said, I am scared. But professor, I trust you. And I owe you everything. Before I came here, I was hardly a person. I had nothing and no-one in the world. You took me in; gave me a home, a family. You never asked for anything in return, nothing. I've spent so much time wondering how I could ever pay you back for all the kindness you've shown me. But you seem so complete, so capable, it never occurred to me. In all the months I've been here, I never even considered the fact that I could give you the one thing that you'd value most. I have been so unforgivably _dense_. And you have been so patient, waiting for me to catch on. I'm so sorry." A gulping breath.

"Please let me do this thing for you. It would be a privilege to give you back the life you had."

Finally, the spell on Erik broke, and he felt safe to turn around. Charles was holding Madeline's hand in both his own, tears freely streaming down his face.

"Thank you," he said simply, and the words rang with the emotion that Erik had lived on and Charles had denied himself ever since she had come into their lives – hope. He dropped her hand, held out his arms, and she came into them wordlessly, hugged him tight.

Erik felt wetness on his cheeks, realized he was weeping too, and dashed the tears away impatiently. But when he rounded the desk, began to haltingly thank Maddy, she silenced him with a glare.

"I've got nothing to say to you," she hissed. "Nothing at all." He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. After all, he had betrayed her. He had let down Charles, broken his promise, put her in a position she should never have been in. How could he defend himself against her scorn? But how could he ever repay her for the gift she had given him and Charles if she wouldn't even talk to him?

"You're wrong about Erik, Maddy. He had a moment of weakness, I know, and you have every right to be angry for that. But he hasn't feigned his friendship. I wouldn't lie to you about a thing like that." Erik looked gratefully at Charles. But Madeline pulled a skeptical face.

"You really think he would have let me go if I had refused to help you? He loves you, Charles. It's all he wants – for you to be back the way that you were. You really think he cares enough about me to forget about that? I don't think so."

"Actually, my dear, it is true and I can prove it. Erik? I think it's time to tell Maddy where you've been for the last week."

* * *

Madeline was awash with emotion – anger at Erik; affection for Charles; fear at the task that lay before her. She didn't understand what Charles was talking about. In fact, in the past hour, her world had been turned so upside down she had completely forgotten that Erik had been away from the mansion for over a week. Her mouth turned down as she remembered now – how she had missed their runs, their talks, how glad she'd been when he came back. _All a lie_, she reminded herself. _Every kindness he ever showed you was a lie_. But it was hard to put aside so suddenly her attachment to the metal bender. She couldn't help but be touched by the pleading in his eyes as he pushed a padded envelope into her hands. She sat down cross-legged on the floor by Charles's chair, watched Erik collapse into the Chesterfield.

"What's this?" she asked suspiciously.

"Open it," Charles said eagerly. "It was supposed to be a surprise – we were going to give you it after dinner. But now seems to be the right time."

She peeled back the adhesive carefully, and drew out papers, documents. "What is all this stuff?" she asked, bemused. Charles beamed.

"It's your new life, my dear. Birth certificate, identity papers, proof of address and so forth. Erik has been away obtaining them for you." She looked up at Erik in wonder.

"How?" Erik shrugged, looked almost embarrassed.

"Apparently hunting Nazi war criminals across the globe gives one an interesting circle of associates," Charles supplied. "Erik assures me these papers are every bit as good as those issued by the correct authorities – better, in fact. And the internal documents authorizing them have been placed in the relevant archives. Erik always did enjoy a bit of cat-burglary." Charles sounded incredibly pleased with himself. "If you're interested to know, you're a distant cousin of mine. Your birthday is November 23rd. And you've lived here for the past seven years, being home-schooled. We got them mainly so that you can sit your high school exams."

Delight exploded in Madeline's chest at this. She'd worked so hard, and learned so much – but she'd been worried her legal status would be a barrier to her dream of qualifying as a doctor. The SATs were the first step along that road, and now she could take them. But she still didn't understand what this had to do with Erik and her. She looked up at the German, forcing her face into a cynical sneer, trying to hide the hollow hurt she felt.

"So you forged documents for me; I'm touched. A useful bribe, I guess. But don't pretend you did it for my benefit." Erik looked injured, then annoyed.

"Actually, the IDs were Charles's idea." She looked at Charles, vindicated.

"You see? This doesn't prove anything." Charles smiled.

"He's right. I was only thinking of getting you through the exams. But the rest of what's in there was Erik's doing." Madeline reached deeper into the package, found another, sealed envelope and a small, green-covered pamphlet embossed with a gold crest. She took it out and turned it over in her hands.

"Your passport," Erik said, in a neutral voice. "And in the envelope, the details of your bank account. It's got $65,000 in it – five thousand for every year you were locked away. It was five thousand your parents took to give you up, wasn't it?" She nodded, looking dazed.

"But why?" she whispered, still gazing at the passport. Charles leapt in to explain.

"I was being an idiot, as usual. It comes from being spoilt growing up, I suppose – money was never an issue, so I just don't think. I imagine it's enough to tell someone that they're free to go whenever they want to, without giving a thought to whether they've even got the wherewithal to pay for a taxi to the station!" He laughed ruefully at himself, then sobered suddenly. "Erik, on the other hand, knows what it's like to have nothing, not even proof of who you are. How sometimes one's choices are directly contingent on how much cash you have to hand, how freely you can travel. He pointed out to me that if I really wanted you to make the choice to stay with us freely, I had to make it feasible for you to choose differently. Hence the passport, the money. You can walk out of here now, with no hard feelings and no fear. Live your own life. Make your own decisions."

Madeline's eyes had wandered to Erik while Charles was speaking. He was watching her reaction closely, his ice-grey eyes hooded and unreadable. She looked again at the little booklet in her hands, the envelope that gave her access to wealth beyond her imagining. This was all she needed to go wherever she wanted to in the world, far beyond the sphere of Fiskel's influence. To go to college; to travel; to forget all about her mutation, all about Charles and Erik, about Fiskel and her family – to be truly free. To have a fresh start. Slowly, she opened the cover of the passport, saw a picture of herself she didn't remember being taken until she spotted a finger of Raven's blue hand on her shoulder. She remembered Charles pursuing them around the mansion with an old Kodak, desperately trying to get them to pose "for some promo material for the school!"

Raven had been perplexed, saying after Charles had taken the shot: "But Charles, I'm blue and Maddy's incognito – you won't be able to use it on anything!"

Charles hadn't seemed perturbed, just saying "quite right, silly me. Best go and find someone else to victimize!", then wheeling off to have a whispered conference with Erik. Now she realized the theatrics had all been in aid of this – her freedom. Tears started in her eyes. Then she noticed the name below the picture, and her heart stopped in her chest.

_Xavier, Ruth._

Erik had given her his sister's name.

She looked up at him, felt the tears streaking down her cheeks.

"Rut?" she asked. He nodded.

"I think it suits you. You remind me a lot of her – she was brave, and kind, and loyal. I'd like to think of you out there in the world, carrying her name forward. When you leave."

Maddy reached out a hand to him, leaving one in Xavier's. Erik took it tentatively.

One of the few books she had had in hospital had been a Gideon Bible, left by a well-meaning scrub nurse she believed. While she had never turned to religion, she had eaten the book up anyway, for the stories, the new vocabulary. She turned through her memories of it now, and found the passage that she sought.

"Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people." Before she had finished, Erik had chimed in in Hebrew, looking surprised at himself, the old words coming back as if they had never been buried under years of pain and anger.

Charles smiled again. "The Book of Ruth. I always loved that passage. It's the epitome of love, don't you think?" Here Charles and Erik's eyes met, and they shared a private moment. Then Charles gave Maddy's hand a friendly squeeze. "Does that mean yo're still going to stay?" Madeline nodded, smiled.

"Of course I'll stay. I think of you guys as my family now. And family help each other."

* * *

**_Author's Note: _**_OK guys, they got there in the end! The action should be stepping up from here on in - thank you for hanging on in there while I got all the plot pieces in place, and spent probably more time than I should establishing relationships between the main characters. Really appreciate your follows and comments - very open to suggestions on how to improve my writing as well. Next chapter is already drafted, so will be uploaded very soon!_


	12. Chapter 12

_**AN:** Hi guys! Next chapter will be the big one - hope the suspense is killing you! It's certainly giving these guys trouble..._

* * *

Maddy gasped as Raven wrapped her up in a bear hug so tight that she could hardly breathe.

"Oh my God oh my God oh my _God_! I'm so happy you came to us! You're amazing!" The blue girl spun around swinging Maddy in a circle.

"Raven, put me down!" the younger girl squealed. Raven complied, but was still so excited she couldn't keep from jumping up and down.

"I'm sorry! It's just such fantastic news. Charles has been so unhappy-" Charles opened his mouth at this, but Raven ploughed ahead - "oh, shut up Charles, you know you have, that British stiff upper lip crap doesn't fool me."

Raven bent over her brother's wheelchair and caught him in his own rib-cracking hug. He winced theatrically over her shoulder.

"Lord, girl, don't break my back all over again!"

Both of them laughed, and Maddy felt a thrill of pride, of joy, that her gift could allow them both to laugh together about Charles's disability, so confident were they that it would soon be a thing of the past.

Telling Raven had definitely been the highlight. She had told Hank first, not wanting to get Raven's hopes up until they were more certain that what they hoped was in fact possible. Maddy had been worried he'd be mad that she had kept so much from him; and he did get angry at intervals, especially when she described how Fiskel cut her finger off out of scientific curiosity – at that, he gave a most un-Hank-like growl, and crushed his coffee mug to smithereens. But by the time she had finished, she saw no anger in his eyes, only sadness and something else - something soft and warm and wanting that she couldn't quite identify.

"You've been so brave," he had said, and awkwardly patted her shoulder. Hank wasn't much given to physical contact, so this embarrassed both of them. Hank went slightly mauve, and then started babbling about myeloproliferative blood disorders, the properties of stem cells, and a hundred other probable root explanations of her mutation. If she hadn't had the memory she had, it would have been impossible to keep up with him. He had started researching straight away, and within a week had a theoretical grasp of the process he believed occurred when her blood or organs was transmitted to another host.

Then it had been time to tell Raven that her new, mysterious best friend might have the power to make her brother walk again (with help from Hank).

The result was electric. Raven had been instantly exuberant, not plagued by any of the doubts that had seen Hank sweating over his textbooks late into the night for the preceding week. She had even impulsively kissed Hank; but that had been unfortunate. He had recoiled as if caught in an illicit tryst, so violently no-one present could pretend they hadn't noticed it. Raven's laughing eyes hooded over with hurt, then narrowed as she looked from Hank looking anxiously at Madeline. But she had soon snapped out of it, too excited for Charles to let Hank's gaucherie spoil the moment.

* * *

Erik watched with Charles and Raven as Hank draw a vial of Maddy's blood. Erik had casually walked behind the girl while Hank was preparing the syringe, and as she tensed when the needle went in, he rested his hand reassuringly between her shoulder blades. She had smiled up gratefully at him.

Charles was always solicitous, making sure she was comfortable with each step of the process. And Hank treated Maddy as if she was made of glass, so careful not to alarm her that he reminded Erik of nothing so much as a slightly simple-minded farmhand trying to gentle a skittish pony. But only Erik really understood.

So far, Maddy had held up admirably – coping with telling Raven and Hank about her gift; going back to the sick bay not as a student, but a patient; allowing Hank to scan her, to take DNA samples. She said it helped a lot that it was Hank; she trusted him implicitly, and he had encouraged her to participate fully in all his of his analysis.

"It's your biology after all; who better to unlock its secrets?"

Most of the time, Maddy seemed in control. But every now and then, the memories of her past threatened to unhinge her. Erik knew by common instinct when these moments were likely to occur, and somehow contrived to always be at her side, to offer her silent support. It was the least he owed her for putting herself through all of this for Charles. And, selfishly, he knew how critical it was to keep her on an even keel. Having come so far down this road, Erik wasn't sure Charles would be able to bear it if Maddy pulled out.

_Projection, my darling_.

Erik scowled at Charles's reproving voice in his head. Alright, so he was invested; he wasn't ashamed to admit it. If Charles wanted to cling to his denial, pretend that he wasn't just as obsessed with the success of the upcoming procedure, there wasn't much Erik could say to prove him a liar – Charles was the mind reader, not him.

But Erik wasn't blind; he'd noticed how distracted Charles had been; kept waking in the middle of the night to find his lover sitting up in bed, staring at his useless legs with a passionate intensity that dissolved into a weak, welcoming smile as he became aware of Erik's observation. Since Madeline had agreed to proceed, the imperturbable telepath had been the equivalent – for him – of a cat on a hot tin roof.

"Damn it," Hank muttered from the bench, peering down the microscope. Instantly, they all crowded around him.

"What is it?" Maddy asked. Hank sighed in frustration.

"The mutations in your blood seem to insist upon a living host."

Erik's face must have been as blank as Raven's was. Hank elaborated.

"The regenerative properties of the blood vanish almost immediately after I draw it. I can't recreate the effect under a microscope. When I combine it with this sample of diseased blood here in the petri dish, it just behaves like anybody's would." Seeing their expressions, he hastened to explain. "It doesn't mean we can't perform the procedure. It just means I can't be sure it will work. Your Dr Fiskel never tried to reverse a paralysis, did he?" he asked, turning to Madeline.

"No, never. I don't suppose it had occurred to him. Cancers, transplants, sickle cell - never a paralysed person. But everything he did try worked. Maybe it just never came up; or maybe he thought paralysis wouldn't be affected, after the amputation of my finger wasn't helped by my mutation." She looked down at her hands. "Maybe he was right. Maybe this isn't going to work."

Erik felt a cold chill lift the hairs on the back of his neck. But Hank shook his head, pushing his glasses up his nose with a speculative expression.

"There's no reason to assume that. I just wish I could at least test the reaction, observe it under lab conditions. Your blood and Charles's is compatible at least - Maddy's O negative, which figures I suppose. But there isn't much else that we can do besides trying out a spinal fluid transfusion – that seems like it would be our best option for having any impact on Charles's condition. But all of this is just guess-work; there's obviously no recommended treatment for trying to cure incurable paralysis with mutated blood. I just wish there was some way I could be more sure before we go ahead." Hank ran a huge paw through his shaggy hair, rumpling it. "I feel like I'm working in the dark here."

Charles wheeled over, patted the young doctor on the back. "Don't feel under pressure, Hank. There isn't any rush. We don't have to do anything until you're comfortable with it."

Erik shot a dark look at Hank; if he was still skittish of taking chances after his own disaster, they could still be in this lab until judgment day. But Hank's face was resigned.

"To be honest, if we can't isolate the reaction - and God knows, we've been trying - this is as ready as we're going to get."

She tried to hide it, but Erik noticed Madeline gulp. All the tests, all the preparation, had been leading up to this point - the moment where they could attempt the cure. But now that it was here, he wondered if she could really go through with it - allow anyone, even Hank, to put her under anaesthetic; cut into her back; take her fluid from her spine. He wondered if anything short of physical force could bring him back to the operating table after his experience with Shaw. Even thinking about it made the gorge rise in his throat, made every piece of metal in the room call out to his power, advertising its potential as a weapon, turned every exit into an escape.

"I repeat," Charles said, his eyes on Madeline, "there is no hurry. I've been like this for getting on a year. I can go on like it a while longer. We aren't going to do a thing until and unless _everyone_ is ready."

Erik felt a surge of pride and relief as Madeline squared her shoulders, stiffened her spine. She summoned up a shaky smile for Charles.

"If you're ready, and Hank is, I am too. Tomorrow?"

_Tomorrow. _Erik could hardly believe it. Madeline's brittle bravura held, but everyone else suddenly looked grave – even Raven's ebullience was quelled when she realised her brother and her friend were really going under the knife the next day. Charles looked serious, Hank thoughtful – probably planning the logistics already.

Erik felt his own expression shut down, the habit of a lifetime kicking in as he responded to his sudden fear by forcing it down to the bottom of his mind, stamping out the weakness that made him think that no possible benefit was worth taking any risk at all with Charles's safety.

_H will be fine_, Erik insisted to the fear. _He has to be._ _He'll be better than fine. Everything will be just like it was before_.

* * *

The five of them dispersed around the mansion by common consent – Hank back to his bench for a last-minute bone-up on spinal surgery, Erik and Charles to play game after desultory game of chess to avoid thinking about the morning to come.

Raven and Madeline were wandering aimlessly around the grounds. Maddy inhaled the scents of grass and bark and wood smoke on the evening air, trying to convince herself that everything would be alright, that Hank would never hurt her, that all this would be worth it in the end when she and Charles walked out of the sick bay together, whole and healed.

Raven was unusually silent; Maddy assumed it was because of her concern for Charles, so was surprised when the blue girl said, almost disbelievingly: "He _likes_ you. Hank. He likes you like _that_."

There was no accusation in her tone – just surprise and a sorrow that made Maddy feel as bad as if there was.

"I'm sure he doesn't. Hank and I are friends, that's all. He's my teacher. I'm sure he knows that's all there is to it." Raven shook her head.

"No. I know that look. He used to look that way at me – as if he wanted to gather me up and take me away from everyone else and keep me safe, all to himself." She spoke flatly, then her voice broke. "I used to love that look."

Maddy was horrified. She liked Hank very much – he was so clever, so kind, had taught her so much. But little as she knew of love – romantic love, that is – she knew she could never love Hank like that. Hank was a comfort, a cosy familiar presence who made her feel safe, content. He didn't light the fire in her she had seen burn between Charles and Erik, or blazing in Azazel's blue eyes when he saw Mystique. Moreover, she could never do that to her friend. Maddy looked at the blue girl with troubled eyes, not knowing how to relieve Raven's pain.

"It's nothing," she said awkwardly. "Even if you're right, it'll blow over. Nothing would ever happen." Raven gave a one-shouldered shrug.

"Doesn't make any difference. Just because he stopped loving you wouldn't mean he loved me again, would it?" She huffed out a sigh, then stiffened her spine.

"It's not your fault, Maddy – or his. It's my own shit, and I need to get over it. Don't you worry about me – you've got enough on your plate as it is." She put her arm round Maddy and qave her a friendly squeeze. "And anyway, he'd be a lucky guy," she said - too heartily, but obviously sincere.

They walked on in silence for a while longer, then Raven asked:

"Did you mean it – you think you can't love him?"

Maddy nodded. The blue girl said, in a much smaller voice:

"Let him down gently for me, would you please? I wouldn't want to see him hurting."

Maddy nodded, but said nothing – for what was there to say?


	13. Chapter 13

"Charles. Come back to bed."

Charles jumped, then gave a washed-out smile.

"Good morning, Erik." Erik sat up in bed. The milky light washed over his face, highlighting the dark circles round his eyes, the deeply scored lines around his mouth. He looked older to Charles; clearly the meagre hour or two of sleep they'd snatched hadn't done him much good.

"It isn't morning yet, _Schatz_. Come back here."

"Actually, it is, as of about five minutes ago."

The telepath had woken up about twenty minutes ago, been unable to settle down again, so pulled himself into his chair and rolled over to the window, watched the azure sky lighten to ashy grey. Nevertheless, he rolled back to the bedside, allowed Erik to pull him back under the covers, wrap him in a close embrace. He rubbed his thumbs gently under the metal bender's eyes, as if he could rub away the sleepless smudges there.

"You didn't sleep much either, did you?" The older man shook his head, shut his eyes as Charles's hands moved up into his hair. Erik tightened his grip on the telepath, until they were pressed chest to chest. He kissed Charles firmly on the forehead.

"I don't know if I'm scared or excited," Charles whispered. "I can't tell if I feel like a child on Christmas eve – or a man with an appointment with the hangman." He gave a nervous laugh. "And I don't know why I'm whispering."

Erik huffed a laugh into his hairline. Charles rolled his head into the bowl of Erik's shoulder, nuzzled his ear, breathed deeply of the scent of his lover – leather, lemon, something spicy and indefinable that Charles thought of as the essence of Erik. He felt the knot in his stomach loosen a little, and something deeper too – the wall that had been growing between he and Erik falling down.

Ever since Madeline had agreed to the procedure, they hadn't had time or thought for all the persistent arguments that had plagued their peace in recent months. All else was forgotten in the preparation for the cure. Although Charles knew deferral wasn't resolution, he was grateful for their renewed closeness. At this time when so much was at stake, he needed some certainties – and Erik's love kept him grounded when the world seemed to be shifting under his feet. His feet. Hah.

The night before, they had played the worst chess of their lives, neither one able to concentrate for more than two moves together. Eventually, while Erik was in the middle of a caustic remark about Charles's failure to protect his last rook, Charles had seized him by the sweater and pulled him into a desperate kiss, seeking to drown the clamour in both of their minds with a passion that was perversely heightened by their anxiety. But with the morning light, the worry had returned in force, and he felt as if only the borders of their bed kept it at bay. He groaned when Erik rolled away, began to dress.

"I thought you said it wasn't morning yet," Charles mumbled, trying not to pout. Erik rumpled his hair reprovingly. He adopted an avuncular tone that rang a little false, only served to highlight the tension underlying it.

"That was then. Come on, _faulpelz_ – today's the first day of the rest of your life."

* * *

"Charles, you're being ridiculous. Please put the gown on."

"My dear fellow, it is simply not going to happen. The very idea."

"You need to put the gown on, it's procedure."

"I don't want to put the gown on. You put the gown on."

Hank pushed a blue paw through his hair. "Erik, you talk to him." Erik held his hands up.

"This is very much a doctor-patient issue. You two work it out between yourselves." Hank snorted, turned back to remonstrate with Charles, when Raven settled the issue by yanking the disputed gown over her brother's head.

"Charles, stop being such a baby. You're having spinal surgery, not going to a cocktail party." Charles made a little moue at her, but acquiesced, allowing Hank to help him out of his clothes and up onto the bed. At that moment, Madeline entered the lab.

Erik had enough work wrestling with his own anxieties, trying to keep Charles's spirits up. When he saw Madeline, his heart sank, knowing that he was going to have to find reserves of strength he didn't have, for her. The girl was white and trembling, had obviously not slept at all. Her hands knotted together convulsively, and her green eyes darted frantically around in her head, like a trapped wild animal seeking escape. He could tell just from looking at her it had taken everything she had to bring her as far as the sick-bay door.

In spite of all his worry over Charles, his heart went out to her. How could they ask this of her? How could she offer? Hank and Raven were still occupied with Charles; Erik seized the moment, strode to Maddy's side.

"You alright?" he asked her. She nodded jerkily, then suddenly gripped his forearm, as if it was the only thing stopping her from falling – or fleeing.

"You'll be here, right? Once he's put me to sleep? You won't leave me?"

Erik closed his other hand over hers, and the vice-like grip eased a little.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'll be there when he puts you to sleep, and I'll still be right here when you wake up. I promise. Nothing bad's going to happen to you." _Let it not be a _lie, he begged, not knowing who he asked. She smiled a sickly smile that skewered him through the heart.

"Sure. What's o-one more scar, right?"

_The end justifies the means. The end justifies the means. _Erik thought that if he just repeated that to himself enough, he might be able to drown out the persistent voice in his head, that wasn't Charles but sounded just like him, saying that this was all wrong. Madeline leaned in to him confidingly.

"Don't let them know I'm freaking out, OK? Charles would only call the whole thing off – and I don't think I could nerve myself up to this again." He nodded, struck speechless with guilt and gratitude. He didn't deserve this gift, this trust.

Maddy took a deep breath, whispered "show time!", then marched into the sick bay, all cheery greetings for her friends. She was a much more compliant patient than Charles, slipping into her gown behind a screen without a word of protest, climbing up onto the cot next to his. It was only when Hank approached her with the anaesthetic mask she balked, involuntarily jerking away. Hank pulled the mask away instantly, put a gentle hand on her quivering shoulder.

"Madeline?"

She gulped, looked pleadingly from Hank to Raven, and then to Charles. Charles was looking at Madeline with an expression Erik recognized – it meant that something was passing between them, some conversation no-one else was privy to. Madeline broke the gaze, looked around for Erik.

"Erik?" He darted to her side. Hank shot the two of them a disbelieving look, to Erik's irritation. He always acted as if Erik had some sort of malign influence over the girl; on other days Hank's misplaced chivalry might have grimly amused him, but not now.

"I told you. I'm right here. Just look at me. When you wake up, I'll be standing right here." She fixed her green eyes on his face, unblinking, like a man walking in the desert stares after an oasis.

"Just count backward from 100 for me please Maddy," murmured Hank, as he lowered the mask over her face.

"Mm-mmm-m, mmm-m-mmm, mmm-m-mmm…" The green gaze wavered, rolled away from Erik. Hank checked Madeline's vital signs, then moved to put Charles under too. Erik reached out to him with one hand, not wanting to remove the other from Maddy's unconscious grip. Charles took his hand in both of his.

"I'll see you soon my love," he said, giving Erik a look so full of warmth and reassurance that you'd think that it was he who was about to go under the knife. "Try not to get under Hank's feet too much – I'd like him at the very top of his game, if it's all the same to you. And that goes for you too, Raven," he added, shooting a fond look at his sister. She bit her lip, then gave him the finger.

"Don't sleep too long Charles; you know what a lazy ass you can be." He smiled as if she'd written him a poem.

"That's my girl." Charles turned to Hank. "I'm ready for my close-up, Dr McCoy. Try to stick the scalpel in the right side, there's a good chap." Hank grinned shyly, then held the mask up over Charles's face. Just before the telepath slipped under, he tightened his grip on Erik's hand and sighed "Eri.."

Hank checked the monitors, then scowled at Erik.

"Right, they're both under. Any chance of you getting out of my way? I'm working here." Erik reluctantly disengaged from Charles and Maddy, rounded the tables to stand beside Raven, and commenced one of the longest waits of his life.

* * *

Madeline was thrashing in a net of darkness. It felt as if she should be able to escape, but the more she tried, the more enmeshed she became. The darkness, silence, the helplessness, were absolute. She tried to stop fighting, to stop caring, to let the darkness have her. But her lungs felt starved for air, her eyes for light. She struggled again, although for what and to get where she couldn't remember. She knew there was a reason she was here, but she couldn't remember that either. The horror struck her that perhaps she had always been here, would always be, alone in the dark, weak, powerless. She opened her mouth to scream-

-and choked on a lungful of air as she burst through the skin of her drug-induced sleep and into consciousness. The first thing she saw, just as he had promised, was Erik, his grim expression breaking into a smile as she opened her eyes.

"Welcome back."

Raven shouldered him away and leaned over her.

"Are you alright? You've been asleep for _hours_. Charles woke up ages ago." Maddy turned her head and saw Charles smiling at her from the other bed. He waved weakly. Hank interposed himself between them.

"Mystique, my patient – do you mind?" Looking chastened, Raven took a step away, allowing Hank to check Maddy over. He looked extremely pleased with what he found.

"Incredible. Just incredible. Your tissue structure is remarkable, you know. The extraction site is already healing over – you could practically watch it repairing itself."

"And Hank practically did," said Raven, tartly. "You couldn't ask for more attentive care, that's for damn sure." Maddy shot her an anxious look, and Raven looked as if she wanted to bite off her tongue. She reached a blue hand out, gently pushed the hair out of Maddy's eyes.

"No more than you deserve. I know what it cost you to do this for my brother. I won't forget." Maddy smiled softly, touched by the emotion in the usually matter-of-fact shapeshifter's voice. She looked at Hank, at Charles.

"So tell me; what happened? Did it-" She found she couldn't complete the sentence, realized she hadn't been able to think beyond the operation itself for days.

"Did it work?" Charles interposed. "Not sure yet; Hank says that the local anaesthetic should be wearing off any time now, and then we'll see. Hank?" Hank checked a dial or two, wrote something on a pad, then nodded.

"Right. We're there. Let's see what's going on." He took out a sterilized needle, moved toward the end of Charles's bed, and gently lifted the blankets away, revealing his feet.

"Now Charles, I want you to remember that we don't know anything about how this thing is supposed to work, or how long it should take. This is just a preliminary test, understand?"

Charles nodded, suddenly pale-faced. Erik was standing behind him, his hands on Charles's shoulders. Charles had absently covered one hand with his, but his eyes were a long way off. Maddy could imagine just where he was – back in a hospital room much like this, being told he would never walk again.

_Please, please_, _let it have worked. Don't let him have to go through that again_, she begged inside her head. Charles obviously caught the thought, as he snapped out of his vacant moment, gave her a reassuring smile he then turned upon Hank.

"I understand, Hank. Don't worry. Now go ahead, there's a good fellow."

Hank crouched down, frowning with concentration. The whole room was holding its breath. Raven's hand was knotted around Maddy's, squeezing it hard enough to hurt. The needle shook as Hank applied it to the sole of Charles's foot.

"Can you feel that?"

There was a trembling silence. And then Charles said, sounding nothing like himself:

"Do that again." Hank pricked the skin a second time.

"Charles, can you feel it?" Erik's voice was taut with tension as he moved to the foot of the bed. Charles leaned up on his elbows and stared at his feet with a strange look on his face. Quite prosaically, he looked like someone trying to remember if they'd left the gas on. And then, suddenly, the toes of both feet clenched.

Charles's face split into a smile that Maddy knew she would remember all her life – so joyful it was almost pained; tears were starting in his eyes as he whispered the only name that could mean anything to him just then:

"Erik!"

Erik looked like nothing Maddy had ever seen before; he looked the way that she imagined true believers felt after confession and communion, relieved at last of the burden of sins long carried, filled with renewed faith and hope. It wasn't an expression she had ever hoped to see on the stern, sad face of the metal bender. At that moment, something happened in her heart that she instinctively felt would give her trouble later on. But for now, she just beamed joyfully at the joy of her friends.

Erik only had eyes for Charles as he reached out a shaking hand, and closed his fingers gently around his lover's toes.

"_Meine_ _Liebe_."

Even Hank smiled. Not even the most cynical listener could have doubted, hearing the tenderness in Erik's tone, how much he loved Charles at that moment. Charles twitched.

"That tickles." He blinked, and repeated: "that tickles!"

Charles began to laugh, a soaring, carefree, joyous young man's laugh, and in that laughter Maddy recognised the Charles she'd never met, the Charles Erik had missed so much, the Charles that she had been able to bring back to him. Tears were running down Raven's cheeks, and Hank's face shone like a hairy blue sun.

They were all startled by the sudden jagged beep from Charles's monitor. A quizzical look came over his face as the machine's bleeping increased its tempo. He looked at Erik.

"Erik-"

And then Charles's eyes rolled back in his head, and he began convulsing on the table.

* * *

_**AN: **Dun-dun-dunnnnnn! Probably no surprise to anyone that this has not ended with hugs and puppies - it is our Charles and Erik, after all. The next instalment is mostly written, and will be up shortly - hang on in there!_


	14. Chapter 14

Erik was at Charles's side in a flash, holding him by the shoulders in a vain attempt to still his spasms, looking for some kind of recognition in those blank blue eyes.

"Charles. Charles! _Charles!_"

He didn't recognise his own voice. That pleading whimper couldn't be him, could it? He could hear a woman sobbing in terror – Raven? _Why couldn't he hear Charles's thoughts?_

Hank shoved him aside unceremoniously, a frown of concentration on his face as he checked the monitors whilst pushing Charles into the recovery position.

"He's going into shock. Maddy, adrenalin, now!"

Maddy was as white as milk, but sprang into action, her hands surprisingly steady as she prepared the shot.

"What's happening, Hank?" She whispered.

"I don't know."

Erik couldn't see Charles's face anymore. He couldn't feel his mind. He hadn't realised how much he had gotten used to that gentle connection whenever Charles was there – a companionable mental presence, not always active but simply _there_. He felt naked, blinded, abandoned. Panic rose like bile in his throat. All the metal in the room began shivering with his fear; the monitoring equipment began to groan ominously as the screws began loosening. Hank rounded on him, all his diffidence evaporating in his focus on saving his patient.

"Erik, get a hold of yourself or get out of here right now, before you kill him!"

Erik tried; he really tried - to reach for the serenity within himself that Charles had helped him find, to subdue his power to his will, to do it for Charles. But then Charles stopped fitting, and went so limp that he looked dead. The machine's beeps became a steady wail. A metal trolley slammed against the wall, rained scalpels and retractors everywhere. Hank turned a murderous look on him, and with a last desperate glance at the slumped body on the bed, Erik fled the sick bay. A poisonous blend of terror, self-hatred and helpless fury boiled in his chest, warred with the dead vestiges of his childhood faith, sought refuge in hopeless, homeless prayer.

_Bitte, bitte, bitte, nicht er. Sonst etwas, sonst jemand. Nicht er..._

* * *

It had taken Hank more than two hours to stabilise Charles; he worked with a single-minded focus, saying nothing except to bark instructions at Maddy, which she readily obeyed. Raven had sunk to her knees in the corner of the room, watching with a frozen expression as they worked over her brother, drawing blood, injecting fluids, fighting for that steady beep-beep-beep that would come for a moment then collapse again. Finally, finally, after so many false starts Maddy couldn't quite believe in it, the monitor settled into a jerky rhythm. Hank gave a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his shoes, and sank grey-faced into a swivel chair.

"That's all that I can do for now. He's stable; I don't know when he'll come around, but if he makes it through the night without relapsing, he should be safe." Raven released a shuddering breath, began to choke out painful, noisy sobs. Maddy leaned back against her own cot, suddenly aware of how exhausted she was. The site of the marrow extraction was aching; was it really just this morning she had been operated on? It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Hank? Was it my spinal fluid?" He nodded wearily. She shut her eyes, trying to absorb the fact that she had almost killed the man to whom she owed everything.

"But it was working! He could feel his feet. He could move his feet! What happened?"

Hank took his glasses off, pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It seems that Charles's own mutation reacted badly to yours. His system rejected the fluid violently, sending him into shock. When I worked out what was happening, I drained the transplant site, and that seemed to stabilise him. Has anything like that ever happened before, with Fiskel?" She shook her head mutely. "It must be a mutant thing. Like my cure backfiring – my mutation fighting Mystique's, coming out stronger." Raven flinched at her name, but she didn't speak. Her yellow eyes were fixed unblinking on the telepath, as if the shallow rise and fall of his chest depended on her witnessing each breath.

"I'll need to conduct more tests to be sure, but the scan of his spine shows that it's back – the way it was. If only I'd been able to do tests; but then your blood doesn't do what it does outwith a host… but I should have known somehow. I should have guessed. And now…" Hank leaned forward, put his head in his hands. Maddy crouched down on her heels in front of him, ignoring her body's protest, put her hand on his shoulder.

"Hank; it wasn't your fault." She took a shaky breath. "It was mine." Hank's head came up, the protest leaping to his lips.

"No. No. Don't say that, Maddy. It wasn't your fault." Her mouth contorted.

"It WAS! It was my blood – I poisoned him! If I had never come here, he'd still be all right!" Hank seized her arms. His golden, bloodshot eyes bored into hers.

"No! Madeline, listen to me. You gave him hope; you gave him his best chance at a normal life. He knew that there were risks; he took the chance. You gave him that choice. Don't blame yourself. And don't let anyone else blame you, either." He said this with such fierceness she wondered who he was referring to. Then she realised, and felt herself go pale.

"Erik. My God, he must be so worried. I have to go to him." Hank shook his head, didn't release his grip on her arms.

"Don't go to him; not yet. Stay here with me." He stared into her eyes, and she felt something pass from him to her, felt a demand, a plea, that she felt instinctively was more than she had room for right now. She evaded his gaze, looked down at the floor.

"Let me go, Hank. I have to go to him." His grip tightened, held – and then he released her with such a sigh. He turned away, put his head down on his arms on top of the work bench. She felt a shard of guilt twist in her heart, and then another when she noticed Raven taking in the whole exchange. But she didn't have room for that either, not now, not yet. She needed to find Erik, to somehow find the courage to tell him that Charles might still not make it, and that worse, everything he had gone through had been for nothing.

She found him almost immediately upon leaving the sickbay. His forehead was against the wall, as if he was trying to see through the concrete into the room beyond. He didn't look at her as she approached, and when he spoke, his voice sounded like it was coming from a long way off.

"He's – dead, isn't he. I can't feel his thoughts. You've come to tell me that he's dead." She shook her head vehemently, for a moment far too appalled to speak. He turned to face her, and she took an involuntary step backward.

She'd thought she had known fear in the past hours, struggling with Hank to coax life into Charles; she'd thought she'd known despair when Charles had crashed for the fifth time. She now realised what she'd felt had been a pale shadow of what Erik had experienced out here, knowing nothing, able to do nothing. His eyes were agonised, the eyes of a damned soul burning in hell. She forced words into her dry mouth, something to take away that awful pain.

"No, Erik, no, he's not dead! He's unconscious, but Hank says that he's going to be alright." A slight exaggeration, but she scarcely had time to feel bad for that before he was shaking his head.

"You're lying. You're just afraid of what I'll do." The lights began to dim and flicker as their metal casings began to vibrate. Against all common sense, but drawn irresistibly to his need, she stepped forward, reached out a hand to him.

"Erik, you know I wouldn't lie to you, not about that. I'm telling you, Charles isn't dead. Come and see for yourself if you don't believe me!" He looked hard at her, as if looking at a stranger, and she realised the pain of the last hour had stripped away all of the safety he had ever allowed himself to feel, forced him back into his past where suspicion meant survival, trust betrayal, weakness death. How could the slim reed of her words bring him back from that place? She was about to despair when suddenly, something gave in Erik's face. The anger died, and there was naked pleading in his voice as he whispered:

"He's still alive?" She nodded.

She only saw how rigid he had been when the tension left his body all at once. He leaned against the wall, his eyes closing.

"He's still alive. He's still alive." He repeated the sentence like a prayer.

Maddy patted him gingerly on the shoulder; he flinched, but didn't pull away. She took that for a good sign. He was trembling under her hand. But his expression was a tragic ghost of the one he had worn the moment Charles had moved his toes – less like a man given a sacred gift, more like one reprieved from torture, but still.

Then he stiffened. His eyes narrowed, became slits of grey ice.

"It didn't work, did it?"

She hesitated, and then shook her head.

"His mutation rejected mine; that's why he got so sick. Hank drained the spinal fluid, and he's back to – back to normal. I'm so sorry, Erik-"

He held up a peremptory hand, forestalling her, turning his face back to the wall again. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, then let it out in a slow, hissing curse.

"Damn it." His hands formed fists against the wall, started to beat against it in time with his words.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it, _damn it!_" She flinched away as he began to punch the wall, blood blooming on his knuckles as he pounded on it with all his strength.

"Erik, stop it! You're going to hurt yourself!" He didn't stop, didn't seem to hear her. Screwing up her courage, she stepped towards him, grabbed his arm and pulled him around with all her strength.

"Stop it!"

He tore away, striking her on the shoulder, and she went down onto her knees, knocking her head against the wall.

He stood over her, breath coming in ragged gasps, face twisted with pain and grief and shame. The he collapsed in front of her, and made an awful sound - like the cry of a wounded animal – a primal moan of fury and despair.

Ignoring the throbbing of the cut on her head, she reached out tentatively. When he didn't resist she pulled him into her arms, squeezing hard, as if she could somehow wring out the pain. He sagged against her, and finally wept. His arms came up around her, and his injured fists still beat a feeble rhythm on her back, smearing her hospital gown with his blood.

"Damn it," he was still gasping through his sobs, "_damn_ it!" She held on to him, bruisingly tight, a savage protectiveness rising up in her she didn't understand or question.

"It's all right; it's going to be all right." She squeezed fistfuls of his sweater, whispered the words into his ear, more concerned with the soothing sound than the meaning.

After all, they both knew that it wasn't true.


	15. Chapter 15

Hank hadn't left the sick bay in what felt like forever. He hadn't slept. Raven had eventually nodded off, emotionally and physically exhausted, sliding down the wall onto the floor. Her neck was bent at an uncomfortable angle, her face stained by the tracks of her tears.

Hank felt an unwelcome twinge of protectiveness for her, alleviated it as best he could by yanking a pillow off Maddy's cot and sliding it gently under her head. He brushed her red hair in passing; she murmured softly in her sleep, leaned into the touch.

He missed her. OK, he missed her a lot. Even when she was this close to him. He missed her jokes, the way she always put him at his ease, made him feel comfortable – normal – loved. He missed the admiring look in her eyes that had been there when showed off his feet.

_You're amazing… You're beautiful Hank. Everything you are, you're perfect._

How could they have gotten so far apart so fast? All he wanted to do now was comfort her, protect her. But she didn't need his protection. She was Mystique now, not Raven, sweet, insecure Raven who thought he was perfect. He had nothing to offer the proud blue mutant, who intimidated him so utterly, with her wholehearted acceptance of herself. He had to move on, to try and find love with someone less intense, more accepting, someone who could make room for Hank's insecurities, his doubts. Someone kind, gentle. He thought involuntarily of Maddy's soft green eyes.

Nonetheless, his hand still lingered on Raven's shoulder – they were exactly the same shade of blue, he noticed vaguely. Then he recoiled guiltily as Madeline and Erik came into the room.

"Jesus God, Maddy! Are you OK?" he cried, shooting Erik a look of incredulous fury as he took in the cut on her forehead, already crusting over and healing. She shook her head.

"It's nothing, Hank. An accident. I fell."

She looked awful, he noticed suddenly. Erik looked even worse – while personally, Hank couldn't care less if the man dropped dead, in his professional opinion Erik looked perilously close to physical collapse.

"For God's sake, Erik, sit down before you fall down," Hank snapped. But Erik wasn't listening to him. He was looking at Charles, only saw Charles. The rest of the room didn't exist for him, except perhaps Maddy (who was, Hank noted jealously, holding his hand). She squeezed and released it as Erik walked jerkily towards the bed.

Charles's face was as white as the pillow it lay on, his red lips cartoonish and wrong against his ghostly pallor. In the frenzy of activity, no-one had thought to re-cover his feet, and they stuck out at the end of the bed like the punchline of an awful joke. Erik reached out with shaking hands, gently drew the blanket tenderly back over them.

Hank felt a stab of pity that he didn't want. Erik had done nothing to deserve it. But Hank hoped to God that he never felt the way that Erik looked right now – harrowed to his very soul with pain, with guilt.

"Charles," he whispered. His voice was hoarse and thick, as if he had a cold. "Please Charles, wake up. Please come back to me." Hank shook his head.

"He's deeply unconscious. He may not come around for days. But he's stable. You don't need to worry." Erik turned a burning look on him.

"Don't need to _worry_?"

"Erik."

Madeline had only said his name; but Erik seemed to check himself, dismissed Hank with a shake of his head like someone batting away a troublesome insect, resuming his vigil by the bed. He stood there, silent, swaying with exhaustion, until, four hours later, Charles woke up.

* * *

The first thing Charles was aware of was intense discomfort. He felt like he'd been in a fight – he was tender and aching everywhere, and his head hammered like a freight train.

The second thing he was aware of was Erik. He focused on the familiar face a split second before a wave of his lover's emotions rocked through him – ecstatic relief; then renewed concern; and something darker under that, an apprehension strong enough to shade to fear –

The _third_ thing Charles was aware of was that he couldn't feel his legs. He couldn't feel his legs.

The disappointment was, if possible, worse than the shock of the moment he was first paralysed. He felt like the bottom was dropping out of his stomach, as if he was filling up with a toxic, choking cloud of grief and rage. The feeling was too big for him, spilled over into Erik via the light telepathic link they always shared. The metal bender winced, leaned over Charles. Summoning a will that he barely had, Charles quickly locked down their mental link. He didn't want Erik to feel him feeling this. A wounded look skittered across his lover's face.

Blank incomprehension, bewildered injury, filled Charles's heart. Completely out of character, he didn't wait to be told what had happened, rifled unasked inside the nearest mind to hand – Hank's – for an answer to the burning question: _why?_

He saw in Hank's mind the cells of Maddy's mutuation seeking out his own, being violently repulsed. Felt Hank's panic when he realized what was wrong, felt him gathering his professionalism to himself like a shield, allowing him to do what he had had to do to save his patient's life. Saw his, Hank's, hands holding a comically large syringe, draining the site of Charles's surgery. Charles jerked away from the memory, saw Hank wince as he roughly left his mind.

No-one had spoken. Erik looked like grim death, Charles noticed. He saw Raven waking up in the corner, looking at him in joyful disbelief.

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked. His throat was like sandpaper. Erik was already holding a paper cup of water up to his lips. Charles tried to find a smile for him, couldn't.

"About eight hours since you – got sick," Hank supplied awkwardly. Charles closed his eyes. There were things they wanted to say, all of them – he could hear the thoughts beating against his pounding head, demanding admittance. Hank wanting to rehearse the details of what had gone wrong, to explain it in a way that Charles, and he, could accept; Erik desperate to say something to comfort him, drawing a total blank; Raven wanted to ask him if he was alright, knew how utterly futile it would sound; and Madeline.

She hadn't said a word, hadn't approached the bed. She was looking at him with a numb pity that he almost couldn't stand. But guilt was radiating off her too. She blamed herself completely; not fair. But again, he found he didn't have it in him to disagree with her, to try and set her at her ease, to find the words to take away her pain.

_It didn't work. It didn't work. You're never ever going to walk again._

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, too late to catch the hot tears that welled up, that ran down his temples, into his ears. He heard Erik catch his breath, felt him snatch up Charles's hand. Charles jerked away, felt an instinctive need not to be touched – he felt that if he was, he might dissolve into a thousand filaments.

"Get out."

Was that his voice? It didn't sound like him, so rough, so raw with pain.

"Charles-" Erik's voice didn't sound like his either. But then, Charles had never heard him beg before.

"All of you, get out." Charles took a deep, shuddering breath. "_Please_."

Raven made a sound of protest, was overruled by Hank, who all but manhandled her out of the room. Slowly, Charles felt the mental noise recede. He opened his burning eyes, and saw he had been left alone. He reached out gently with his power to be sure; only Erik was anywhere nearby, waiting irresolute out in the hall, torn between his desire to give Charles whatever he had asked for, even solitude, and his creeping suspicion that what he wanted and what he needed were far from the same. Charles was sure that his lover's tendency to confront troubles head on would bring him back over the threshold before too long. But not yet; please, not yet.

Alone in the sick bay, Charles sat up awkwardly, every muscle in his torso protesting, but the site of his surgery typically numb. He leant forward, and pulled the blankets back from his feet. He remembered with crystal clarity how it had been, to see them move, to _feel _them move. And even though he knew it was futile, he desperately tried to move them again. His mind was so, so powerful; how could it be unable to triumph over a few severed nerves? He stared at his toes, willing them with all his being to _move_.

He stared, and stared. Eventually, he wept.

* * *

"Madeline?"

Hank had followed her up to her room.

She was tempted for a moment to ignore his soft knock, his quiet call, to stay here in bed and pretend she was already asleep, to leave his questions, his worries, his need, until she had been able to deal with her own.

"Madeline, please. I need to talk to you."

She sighed, pushed away the covers. She owed him better than that. And while the world was falling in around them all, wasn't it all the more important to be kind to one another?

With this in mind, she reluctantly opened the door, just as he was about to turn and go. He came in, looking awkward, obviously embarrassed to have sought her out like this. At her invitation, he sat down hesitantly on the bed.

"I thought we ought to talk. You're not still blaming yourself for this, are you? What did Erik say to you?" She bit down her irritation at this. _He's only trying to look out for you_.

"He didn't say anything to me Hank, not like you mean. Can't you see that he's half out of his mind with worry over Charles? He's not looking around for somebody to blame." To her surprise, Hank snorted derisively at this.

"Erik's never been the selfish sort, not where suffering is concerned; he spreads it around with a big shovel." She sprang up, angry now, opened the door.

"Hank, if you've just come here to run him down-" Hank held up his hands placatingly, shaking his head.

"I'm not, I'm not. I'm sorry. I'm tired, you know? Let's leave him out of it." She hesitated; then she thought back to the two of them working side by side to save Charles's life; how readily he'd trusted her to help him; how hard he had tried. How could she not forgive him after that? She sighed, shut the door, sat back down.

"He doesn't blame me Hank; or you. He's just devastated. He invested all his hope in this. I really don't know how he's going to bear it now." Hank shrugged.

"It's Charles that I'm worried about. And you. Maddy, you do _know_ this isn't your fault?" She bit her lip. "You did an incredibly noble thing; you were willing to go through that again, to help somebody get their life back." She wrung her hands.

"But Hank, it didn't _work_!" He reached out tentatively, took her hands between his own blue paws.

"Only because Charles is a mutant. You've still helped so many; your sister; all the others you saved. Maddy, when I was performing the procedure today, I saw your scars." She blushed, knowing how Hank felt about deformity, imperfection. But he hurried on. "I realized that every one represents a life you have saved. That is amazing, Madeline. The things you've done; the things you still might do…."

He tailed off, looking at her with awe. She blushed. He hurried on, his words tripping over themselves in their hurry to be said.

"There's no need to give up on this just because of what happened with Charles. Your gift could still do so much for so many people." She flinched away from him, a growing sense of betrayal blooming in her chest.

"You want us to keep on doing procedures. For humans." It wasn't a question. Hank nodded, not picking up on her reaction in his eagerness to persuade her.

"Not like before, of course not like before. Not for profit, obviously. And you'd be in complete control." He saw her wavering, then played his trump card. "And if we keep on researching, using data from trials with human recipients, keep on trying to isolate the gene… there's still a chance –a slim one, but a chance – that one day we could figure out how to make your blood work on mutants, on Charles."

She hesitated. After the total failure of today's procedure, she didn't think she had the stomach to consider more. But Hank was so eager, and he had virtue on his side – how could she callously refuse to help innocent people struck down in the prime of their lives, through no fault of their own?

She was too tired to think about this. She stood up, opened the bedroom door.

"I'll think about it Hank, OK? Right now, I just need to sleep for about a year."

Looking chagrined, he sprang up and made for the door.

"Of course, sorry. I'll see you tomorrow?" She nodded. Hank hesitated in the doorway, then jerkily bent down and kissed her. She ducked her face so that his lips just grazed her bangs. He blushed.

"Sleep well Maddy." And he was gone.

Maddy realized even more than sleep, she needed to be clean. She made for the bathroom, shrugged off the hospital gown she hadn't realized she was still wearing. As she turned on the bathroom taps, stood in the clouds of rising, scented steam, she caught sight of herself in the mirror – small, lean, covered in scars. For once she gave herself more than a cursory inspection, running her eyes, her hands, over her body, taking inventory of every scar.

_Every one a life saved_.

Maddy had never got the chance to meet any of Fiskel's customers. She was always out cold before they were wheeled in and brought back round after they'd been wheeled out. Fiskel couldn't risk them seeing her, or God forbid talking to her. Not, she supposed, that many of them would have cared that their miracle came at the cost of her freedom.

Now she remembered Charles's smile, Erik's converted face, when Charles had been able to move his toes. Imagine if each scar had meant a smile like that; but a smile that stayed? Would it have made her suffering worthwhile, make every scar a mark of pride rather than a tattoo of servitude?

It was a thought.


	16. Chapter 16

_3 weeks later_

Erik was sitting in Charles's study, in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair he'd purloined from the kitchen. Charles, of course, had no need of an office chair, so the space behind the desk was usually empty. Erik was trying, and failing completely, to get his head around the paperwork pertaining to the school, that Charles had always managed so effortlessly.

What was all this stuff _for_, anyway? Erik had thought you could simply call your building a school and the thing was done. How had he not realised how much _bilge _Charles had to wade through to get this thing off the ground? Registration, taxation, health and safety checks – and bills Erik hadn't even considered, for equipment, stationary, medical supplies, converting a wing of the mansion into dormitories (here was also some sort of construction bill related to the basketball court Erik wasn't even going to try to decipher; he had filed it behind a plant pot and was hoping it would somehow go away).

And the school wasn't even really up and running yet. At present, it was more of an informal sanctuary for mutant kids, with education doled out in a haphazard fashion by Charles, Mystique, Alex or Hank as their schedules and areas of expertise allowed. The real first term would begin in September – a date that had seemed comfortably far off before Charles's procedure, when Erik's every concerned question had been met with a seraphic smile and the reassurance "Everything's in hand, my friend. Now how about a cup of tea?" Now Charles had more or less checked out of his own life, it loomed alarmingly large, robbing Erik of what precious little peace he could scavenge nowadays.

At times, he thought of throwing it all in, cancelling the grand opening, sending all the children home - he'd never understood why it had to be a school anyway, when they should be preparing for a war. But he couldn't do that to Charles's dream. Even if Charles no longer seemed to care. About the school, or anything much else. Anyone else.

Erik put his head in his hands, ignoring an avalanche of paper sliding off the desk as he knocked it with his elbow. He hadn't been able to talk to Charles since the day he woke up. He stayed up in the sick bay, pleading exhaustion, sending out Hank to tell his anxious friends that he didn't feel up to visitors. Erik had tried to reach out to Charles with his thoughts, secretly suspecting Hank was enjoying the excuse to thwart his will. But Charles was keeping that door firmly closed as well.

It was the longest time they'd been apart since they had met; Erik was half-insane with worry, concern, loneliness – and the beginnings of frustration he tried to deny even to himself. He missed Charles more than he had thought he had it in him to miss anything. He couldn't sleep. He barely ate. Just sat here, futilely trying to keep the boat of Charles's life on course, even though the captain had abandoned ship. Trying to make sure he had something to come back to, if he ever did. Tried to hope, like Charles (_his_ Charles, the one inside his head, not the isolated invalid upstairs) would have wanted him to. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyelids, watched the red, swirling darkness, tried to stop thinking for just a minute.

"Erik?"

Maddy's voice was laced with worry. Erik sighed; there was a lot of that going around.

"I'm fine Maddy. Just paperwork, you know."

She looked unconvinced. "It's getting late. Shouldn't you be going to sleep?" He looked at her balefully.

"I am a grown adult you know." She shrugged.

"Even grown adults need someone to look out for them now and then. You look like hell. If you won't eat, the least that you can do is sleep."

Erik thought about arguing with her, then changed his mind. After all, what was the point? Down here or up in his room, he wouldn't get any rest; even when exhaustion overruled his insomnia, his nightmares would see to it that he didn't sleep for long – without Charles, they had returned in force, the old horrors along with some new friends: Charles fitting, going limp, Charles pale and staring on the bed, Charles dead. Charles crying.

But there was no need for her to know. She couldn't help; and she did care. He acquiesced.

"You're right; I'll go up soon." She seemed almost as perturbed by his meek response as she had been by his working late. She sat down in the Chesterfield, heedless of the piles of paper everywhere.

"I'm worried about Raven. She can't believe that Charles won't see her, thinks Hank's lying just to spite her. They had a blazing row this afternoon. She's crying in her room right now, won't let me in." She essayed a weak joke. "These Xaviers and their hiding behind closed doors, huh?"

Erik didn't respond. He was concerned about Raven as well, but the feeling could barely find room in his heart beside the great, aching stone of anxiety for Charles that bore down on his lungs from the moment he woke up every day. _She'll be alright_, he sought to convince himself. _She's a survivor_. Once, he would have said the same of himself.

Maddy was still looking at him, her expression ran the gamut from concern to fury.

"This has gone far enough," she said suddenly, standing up.

"What do you mean?" Erik asked her, but she had already left the study.

* * *

"Charles?"

Charles hadn't heard Maddy's quiet approach. He had been concentrating – as he seemed to spend a lot of time doing these days – on not screaming aloud, with boredom, with anger, with misery. How had she even gotten in here? Hank must be busy elsewhere. He kept his eyes shut. Maybe if she thought he was asleep, she'd go away.

"Charles, I know you're not asleep."

He sighed. So much for that idea.

"Not now, Madeline."

He tried to keep his voice level; he didn't want to take his anger out on her. But she didn't leave.

"Why not now, Charles? You're what - busy?"

He blinked, sat up on his elbows and examined her. Her jaw was jutting out defiantly, and for once, someone was looking at him without the cast of pity and guilt that had become so familiar to him. In fact, she looked pissed off.

"I think you've been spending too much time with Raven," he eventually opined. "You're becoming altogether too - cheeky." She shrugged.

"Well someone has to step up to the plate. Raven isn't so cheeky nowadays. She's too busy bleeding over you." The bluntness of this caught him off guard, slipped a blade of guilt between his ribs. He shook his head, trying to ignore it.

"She'll heal." _Which is more than I will_, he thought bitterly. Madeline shook her head.

"Not without your help, Charles. Nor will Erik."

_Erik_. Much, much more than a blade of guilt. This time her words set off an atom bomb of emotions within his chest – love, concern, pain, obligation, inadequacy, and worst of all, a searing resentment, which Charles knew was irrational. He couldn't handle any of it; he could barely stand to be awake, wanted nothing more than for Hank to come back and administer another shot, to let him go to sleep. He turned his face away from her, into the pillow.

"This conversation is over. Goodbye."

"I'm not finished. Charles, I've been looking at your notes here. You're better now. In fact, you are in perfect health."

He scoffed incredulously into the pillow. She amended hastily.

"As good as you were before the procedure, in any case." Her tone changed, became softer.

"Hank won't discharge you until he thinks you're emotionally ready. I've tried to tell him that isn't going to happen as long as you're hiding up here, that only living life again will help - he won't listen. So now I'm telling you. You have to get up Charles, come back to us. Erik needs you. Raven needs you. We all do. There's so much that has to be done that only you can do." Charles whipped round upon her.

"What if I don't want to do it anymore?" He snapped bitterly. She flinched away, and he felt a flicker of shame. "What if I can't?" he whispered fearfully. She shook her head, emboldened to step forward, lay a hand on his arm.

"Yes you _can_. You're the strongest person I know." Charles rolled his eyes in disbelief.

"Strong? Hardly. All my life I've been protected. Everything that I've ever achieved has been down to money, to privilege, or to mutant powers – none of which I earned. And none of which can help me now. I'm a _cripple_, my dear. What is it that you think is so strong about me?" He looked at her, expecting her to be silenced by that unanswerable question. Instead, she began to speak as if she had been holding back the words.

"Your hope, Charles. Your resilience. Your heart. You have overcome so much that would have destroyed a lesser man. You grew up with terrifying powers, all alone; you could have become a monster, or gone insane. Instead you did the best you could by other people, took Raven in when she had nowhere to go, gave her a home. You took someone as broken as Erik and taught him how to love, how to be loved. You made this school, this family. It's only you that's holding it together – your love; their faith in you. Maybe one day what you've built here will be strong enough to stand on its own; but for now, Charles, it is standing on you. And none of that has anything to do with your money, or your privilege, or your powers. It certainly doesn't have a damn thing to do with your legs. It has to do with the amazing man you are."

She took a deep breath.

"You owe it to yourself to get through this. Take it from me, hiding away in a hospital bay for the rest of your life isn't going to bring you peace. You have the choice to live a life; you have to take it Charles, you just have to."

She looked at him expectantly, and Charles felt the full burden of her hope, her faith, her need, and those of all the mutants he had brought together here. He remembered what he had told Hank, so many months before, in his study. _I carry on because I must_. That was no less true now than it had been then; but never had the sweetness of life that had then sustained him seemed so remote.

"You think too much of me. I think perhaps I thought too much of myself; I thought that I could take the disappointment if it came, that I had nothing to lose. I worried more about how Erik would feel, and you. I never expected to be so… knocked for six."

He was dismayed to hear the sob in his voice, to feel the tears that came so easily these days welling up in his eyes again. She held his arm tighter, but didn't try to remonstrate with him. He looked up at her thankfully, saw the pain in her face mirroring his own. A tentative probe into her mind unearthed a well of guilt. _None of this would have happened if I had never come here_.

Gathering all his strength, he swallowed his tears, shook his head.

"You know I don't blame you for anything, my dear? None of this is your fault. It's just… fate, or biology, or something. Maybe this is just the way I'm meant to be; perhaps in some alternate universe, where I never met Erik Lensherr, never heard of Sebastian Shaw, I got run over by a bus instead." The weak attempt at humour fell flat, but she smiled gamely through her guilt, squeezed his arm. Then her face turned serious again.

"Charles, you say you don't blame me. Do you blame Erik then?" Charles's pupils contracted in shock.

"Why would you think that?" She shrugged.

"I don't know. It doesn't really make any sense. I mean, he's always blamed himself of course – but you didn't, of course you didn't. How could you have loved him if you thought that your maiming was his fault? But Charles, since the procedure failed, you won't see him, won't talk to him. What's he supposed to think?" Charles shook his head.

"I haven't been seeing anyone, but Hank. In fact, I wouldn't be talking to you if you hadn't so rudely barged in and refused to bugger off." His gentle tone took the sting from the words. "Why should Erik take it so personally?" Maddy rolled her eyes.

"Charles, please! I thought you were supposed to be a telepath. Anyone can see the guilt's eating him up. He feels responsible – not just for the original accident, but now for the procedure too – thinks if he'd never said anything to me, somehow things might have worked out differently. He's always felt unworthy of your forgiveness. And so when you say you won't see him, he takes that as the judgment he feels that he's deserved all along, just come several months late." Charles blinked.

"Are you sure you don't have a touch of the old telepathy yourself? I know you and Erik have formed a bond, but he's usually as close-mouthed as a clam – I can't believe he's said all that to you…" She pursed her lips.

"It's written all over him, Charles. If you weren't so set on shutting everyone out of your mind, you'd not be able to hear anything else." Charles flinched at the sharpness in her voice.

"I'm not being very fair to anyone right now, am I?" he sighed. She sagged, softened.

"Nothing about any of this is fair, Charles. Why should you be?"

Charles was perversely heartened to hear some of his own bitterness in her voice. A solemn silence fell between them, Madeline apparently prepared to simply stand with him while he processed his pain. Charles shut his eyes, tried to reach into himself and find the acceptance he had had before – or had it always simply been denial, forlorn hope masquerading as resignation? He closed his eyes. He was just so tired.

"I don't know if I can do this, Madeline. I don't know if I'm strong enough. But I will try. And I will see Erik, now; it's unforgivable of me to put him through this, just because I am in pain myself. Thank you for making me see that." She smiled.

"I'll send him up in a minute. Hank won't thank me, but he's just going to have to disapprove, I guess." She had something in her other hand, he noticed just as she turned her back. She paused over by the work bench, fiddled with something for a moment, then stood back to reveal the wireless.

"Don't forget what you told me, Charles: out there on the open sea, the winds keep blowing back and forth the same way as they ever have; the tide is treading its old pattern; in some sense, somewhere, all's right with the world."

With that she left him to the strains of _Sailing By_.


	17. Chapter 17

Erik was tossing and turning uneasily in his sleep, his handsome face twitching with tension. Small moans were escaping him, tugging at Maddy's heart as she approached the bed. She hung back uneasily, wanting to wake him but sensible of the fact that this was a powerful mutant, in the grip of powerful nightmares - if she alarmed him, he might easily hurt her. Eventually, she screwed her courage up, and laid a gentle hand on his sweating shoulder.

"Erik? Erik, wake up. Wake up." He moaned again. She shook him gently.

Erik exploded off of the bed, and Maddy found herself pressed up against the wall, his hands around her throat. His chest was heaving rapidly, his eyes blind and panicked.

"Erik!" she choked. Slowly, his vision cleared, and he recognized her. He dropped his hands at once, took a step back, into a patch of moonlight. She rubbed her neck.

"What are you doing here?" he asked roughly.

"I spoke to Charles, Erik. He wants to see you now; I thought you'd want to know right away."

He stiffened, blinked. He looked like he was trying to convince himself he wasn't still asleep.

"Charles…" he said, in a wondering tone. She nodded, smiled.

"Go on, go to him. He's waiting for you."

Erik pulled on a t-shirt inside out, seemed not to notice he was barefoot. He was halfway out of the door before he thought to turn around.

"Thank you. I don't know what you did, but… thank you."

* * *

Erik approached the sick bay apprehensively, almost jumped out of his skin when Hank suddenly rounded the corner.

"Jeez, Erik, how many times? Charles doesn't want to see anybody. When that changes, I'll let you all know!" Erik opened his mouth to protest, when Hank's eyes went briefly blank and his irritated expression gave way to mild embarrassment.

"Oh. Well I guess I'm letting you know then. He says to send you through."

Erik couldn't restrain a smug smile.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Beast."

Hank growled.

"I'm just trying to give Charles what he wants, Erik." Erik sneered.

"A man can have too much of what he wants. Not that you'd know much about that." Hank frowned.

"What do you mean by that?" Erik gave a short laugh.

"Let's not play stupid with each other, Hank. We can all see you mooning after Madeline like a lovesick puppy. I know that you've convinced her to go on butchering herself for humankind. Seriously, if you want an excuse to spend more time with her, couldn't you just take her to the movies?"

Hank blushed, then snarled.

"What business is it of yours anyway?" Erik shrugged.

"She's one of us. I don't want to her exploited for human gain." Hank rolled his eyes.

"But you were perfectly happy to exploit her for mutant gain, for Charles's gain?" Erik felt a bloom of anger in his chest.

"I didn't exploit her; she made her own free choice." Hank laughed cynically.

"Now who's playing stupid? Anyone can see that she's got some ridiculous hero-worship crush on you. She'd do anything she thought you wanted; she's even got Charles to see you, more for your benefit than his-"

_Hank. Erik. Stop this._

Erik was torn between embarrassment at being caught having this puerile argument with Hank, and sweet relief to hear Charles's mental voice in his head again. In spite of the anger in that voice, it felt like a caress, like coming home. He pushed past Hank, their argument forgot, and marched into the sickbay, to Charles's bedside.

"Tell me, Erik, why do you have to go out of your way to antagonize Hank at every opportunity? What has he ever done to you?" Erik leaned over the pillow, looked deep into Charles's ridiculously blue eyes.

"I'm sorry, _Schatz_. He just gets under my skin, that's all. Forget about him for a moment. Please?" Charles sighed, but acquiesced, closing his eyes. Erik pushed the hair back from Charles's brow, relishing the feeling of being close to him again after what had felt like forever. "How are you feeling, _liebling_?" he whispered.

Charles tried to smile, but the corners of his mouth couldn't quite turn up. He opened his eyes again, and Erik was floored by the depths of his lover's grief.

"Not good, my friend. Not very good at all." As Erik watched, the tears welled up, rolled over Charles's cheeks into the pillow. "I'm sorry," Charles whispered. "I ought to be able to be stronger. For Raven. For you." The sobs started to shudder out of him. Erik bent over, drew Charles into an ungainly embrace. His eyes bored into the wall behind Charles, and he damned to hell any God that might exist who would inflict this on the man he loved.

"You don't have to be sorry for anything. Everything will be all right, Charles. I promise. We're going to get past this, you and I." Charles nodded against his shoulder, and Erik felt some of the tension leave his body.

"Erik?" He nodded eagerly. "Will you please hold me?" Erik tightened his grip on the telepath. "I mean really hold me. Next to me?" Erik straightened, climbed up onto the narrow cot beside Charles, his leg swung over the telepath to anchor him into place. He buried his nose under Charles's ear, felt the tickle of his hair.

"I know," Charles murmured, and Erik was heartened to hear something like humour in his voice. "I'm starting to look a right old hippy. Any longer up here on my own and I'd have grown a bloody beard." Erik squeezed him tighter, felt him yawn. "I haven't had a proper, non-drug-induced sleep for weeks."

"Nor me." Charles gave Erik an answering squeeze, apparently taking that as a rebuke.

"I'm sorry I abandoned you, Erik. I never will again." And that was the last thing Erik was aware of before they both drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When he woke up, he was alone. He lurched quickly to his feet, utterly disoriented and instantly alarmed.

_Don't worry, love. I'm still here._

Erik unwound instantly at the calming feeling of Charles's mental link.

_Where are you, _Schatz_?_

_I went back to our room to get some clothes. You can't imagine how sick I am of hospital gowns. _

Our room. An irrepressible grin grew on Erik's face at the thought of their room, their life, not lost, not ruined. He walked out of the sick bay with a much lighter heart than he had walked in with.

_ERIK! What the HELL have you been doing in my study?_

Erik's grin widened. Now that was definitely the Charles he knew.


	18. Chapter 18

_3 weeks later_

Raven was down in the gym, working a bodybag as if it had done her personal wrong. With every punch, she sought to banish an image she knew that if she couldn't exorcise, would rob her of her sleep tonight, the sleep she needed to be strong, to do what she needed to do.

_Charles at the kitchen table late last night, after he thought everyone had gone to sleep, reaching for a second bottle of whiskey, blinking away tears._

Punch.

_Madeline heading up to the sick bay for the third time this month, looking pale but determined, off to donate a kidney to a sick six-year-old human._

Punch.

_The hurt on Hank's face when she had refused his cure. The disgust on Hank's face when she had turned blue. The dismay on Hank's face when she had kissed him up in the lab. The look on Hank's face whenever Maddy came into a room._

Punch. Punch. Punch. Punch. Kick. Punch.

With a grunt of exhaustion, she fell onto her knees in front of the swaying bag, smacked one last punch into the mat in frustration.

Everything was wrong; nothing had really changed with Charles's operation, yet everything was different. She had thought, all of them had thought, that when he had appeared at the breakfast table one morning as if he had never been away, with Erik grinning like a Cheshire cat, that everything was going to be alright.

But although Charles was back, went about his daily routine, dispensed the careless kindness that was his signature, there was something missing behind his eyes. What that something was, she couldn't have said, but she felt the want of it nonetheless. And last night, when she had come across him in the kitchen all by himself, drinking alone, choking back tears with seven-year-old scotch, she had realized what that thing was: hope.

The drinking worried her. Charles had always had a tendency to overdo the sauce. That was to be expected, she supposed. His parents had both been heavy drinkers, even before his father died. After that, his mother Sharon had climbed into the comforting embrace of a bottle of vodka on an almost permanent basis. Charles had grown up with alcohol, and in time had taken to it with the same puppyish enthusiasm he brought to all the pleasures of life, encouraged by his mainly English social circle (the English seemed to pretty much live to drink, in Raven's experience) and his seeming immunity to hangovers (a perk of his mind's mutation, he had hypothesized to her laboriously, one evening when he was deep in his cups).

But he had never drunk like this before – drunk to excess to sleep; drunk to forget. It frightened her, and frightened Erik too. The main practical problem was that when Charles was drunk, he lost some of his control over his ability, could accidentally project his emotions onto other people. Some of the children had begun waking up in the night sobbing heartbrokenly, but when she sought to comfort them, they couldn't explain why. She had tried to talk to Charles, but when she had, the thin skin of composure he had stretched over his pain visibly strained. She couldn't bear to be the one to make it break.

Raven sighed. She hadn't realized, until it had evaporated, how much she had defined herself against her brother's positive nature. His hope had allowed her to be cynical; his faith had given her room to entertain her own doubts. Now she felt as if the ground had gone out from under her.

She was considering giving the bag another seeing to when suddenly the air cracked and Azazel appeared right in front of her. She forced herself not to jump, not to let her face show her alarm.

"Azazel? What are you doing here?"

The smile on Azazel's face fell off the second he registered her expression.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked. She blinked.

"What do you m- it's none of your business! What do you want?" The bright blue eyes darkened; the red man's thin mouth turned down, tugging at his scar.

"To see you, _siniy ved'ma_. Always, only to see you."

She blushed, feeling an obscure sense of shame. He had only ever been polite to her (always excepting their first meeting). It wasn't fair to take her sadness and frustration out on him. But what was fair? She blew air out through her nose.

"I'm sorry, OK? Things are just – difficult round here just now. It isn't a good time." He put his head on one side.

"Not good time? What not good time?" She wearily outlined to him the situation with Maddy, the procedure, the failure. He took it all in, and then he shrugged.

"So nothing changes. This is bad for Xavier, yes, but why for you?" She rolled her eyes.

"Because I'm scared, alright? I'm scared he isn't going to cope. I'm scared that everything's falling apart. I'm scared for Maddy too – I think she's going to do all these operations as some sort of penance – it's only a matter of time before something goes wrong, before she gets hurt. I'm scared that-" Raven stopped abruptly, put her hand over her mouth. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this."

Azazel didn't comment, vaulted lightly onto a pommel horse where he sat cross-legged, careless of the creases he was putting into his immaculate suit.

"What is point of this being scared? Things will happen, or things will not. Scared will not change it." She stared at him incredulously.

"What, you've never been scared?" He shook his head.

"No."

The simplicity with which he said it rang of truth. She looked at him curiously.

"Why not?" He shrugged, flicked his tail absent-mindedly.

"For what should I be scared? No-one can hurt me." By way of demonstration, he snapped to various points around the room, returning to his cross-legged perch with a cloud of red smoke and a singed smell. "I think I understand why people are afraid. But I have no reasons for this. So I don't know what this is like."

Raven imagined, briefly, what that might be like – to be utterly fearless. She leaned against the pommel horse, looking up sideways at him.

"Weren't you afraid of Shaw?" Azazel gave her an offended look.

"Of course not. He was powerful, but he could not do what I can. He needs me. He knows he cannot control me. And so he makes it worth my while to help him; he tells many lies. I was perhaps foolish; but not afraid, never."

She turned these thoughts over in her head for a while. He didn't seem to feel the need to fill her silences with idle talk. He was staring at her quite openly, however, taking in her every curve and feature.

She decided to return the favour, examined him minutely, the perfect tailoring, the deep red skin, the silky, wild black hair, the roguish scar the cleaved a path from his eyebrow to the middle of his left cheek. Finally she met his gaze, allowed herself at last to acknowledge that what she saw in his startlingly pale blue eyes went beyond lust. Oh, that was there as well of course; but it was more than that. He looked at her as if she was something rare and wonderful – almost with awe.

"You are so very beautiful," he said. It wasn't flattery, she realized. He was simply stating the facts as he saw them. Her mouth was suddenly dry. Hank's voice sounded inside her head. _It behooves me to tell you… your natural blue form will never be deemed beautiful. _Azazel's gaze seemed to transfix her like an awl. She turned away, walked towards the mirrors that lined one wall of the gym.

"Where do you go when you aren't here?" she asked, partly for something neutral to say, partly because she had always wondered. He shrugged.

"Wherever I want. Anywhere I want. Many places. Before I came here, Istanbul. I wanted to see Bosphorus. And so I went."

The air cracked as he disappeared, then with a pop he was standing right behind her. He put a red hand on the base of her neck, a gesture of possession so confident it took her a moment to notice, to mind.

"You want to go somewhere, _siniy ved'ma_? I can take you. Anywhere you ask." His voice was hoarse, caressing. She turned around, faced him down. He was so close she could smell him – a spicy aftershave overlaying a cool, smoky smell, like a bonfire on a winter's night.

_You've never been with anyone when you're yourself_.

The thought popped unbidden into her head. His hand was still on the back of her neck. His thumb slowly traced the line of her jaw. She forced herself to keep her eyes open, to meet his gaze. He drew his breath in sharply.

"_Siniy ved'ma_?"

"No," she said. His face fell.

"No," she repeated, reaching up tentatively to run her forefinger down his scar. "I don't want you to take me anywhere."

When he kissed her, she felt like water in the desert – not loved, but needed, desperately. They fell together onto the mat floor, and Raven gave in to the inevitable, let Azazel take her away from her self, from her fear, for a time.


	19. Chapter 19

"Hank, take a look at this will you?"

Hank vaulted into the sick bay, swinging off the doorframe to land with a thud next to Maddy by the workbench. It pleased her when he loosened up like this – unselfconsciously displaying his mutant agility. It let her know he felt comfortable with her. What didn't please her was the familiar look on his furry face – one of concern and disapproval.

"You should be in bed. You're still weak from the procedure last week." She blew frustrated air out of her nose.

"Hank. I am FINE. You saw yourself, the kidney's back, and working fine. I've spent more than enough time in bed as it is." Hank looked mutinous, but acquiesced.

"Fine, fine. What did you want me to look at?" She indicated the pig's heart on the table before her. It was hooked up to a bypass machine, pumping the blood through it in an eternal loop, oxygenating and de-oxygenating – to all intents and purposes, the heart was alive. At least, alive enough for Maddy's purposes, which all revolved around unlocking the secret of her blood.

Hank grimaced. "Lovely. What am I looking at?" She smiled at his squeamishness. It had been her idea to try pig's hearts, hypothesizing that just because her blood required a living host, it didn't necessarily have to be human. Hank had seemed almost offended on her behalf at the suggestion.

"This is that test environment. The blood is human, sickle-cell. Look what happens when I add my own blood to it." She calmly stuck a syringe full of blood into the heart and depressed the plunger, then stood back so Hank could observe the effects on the blood pumped out of the heart through a microscope. They had both already watched the process a dozen times, watched as the blood cells began to collide, fuse, tremble, break apart and reconvene again, as slowly her blood won the war, and the curved diseased cells began to plump and straighten out. The process began instantly, but usually took several hours to complete. Hank peered politely, then stood back.

"So what?" She grinned.

"Check this out." With a flourish, she pulled a cover off the end of the bench, revealing two more hearts similarly hooked up to bypass machines.

"This one is just like the control heart there – a pig's heart, filled with sickle-cell blood. The other is my own heart, filled with my blood." She remembered how horrified he had been when she had asked him to remove her heart for test purposes, keeping her on bypass until a new one grew back. He had almost balked, until she made it a condition of performing another donation to a sick kid.

"Now watch this." She drew a syringeful of diseased blood from the pig's heart, and injected it neatly into the heart with her blood in it. Hank peered into the microscope. Madeline's blood engulfed the diseased cells, and the disease was disappearing almost quicker than he could watch. He blinked.

"That's weird." She grinned.

"You ain't seen nothing yet. Watch _this_." She pulled a syringe full of the cured blood out of 'her' heart, and injected it into the 'patient' heart. Hank looked into the microscope… and saw a perfectly healthy blood flow, with perfect, round red blood cells.

"What the hell… how did that happen so quickly?" he asked.

"I know, right? I couldn't believe it myself the first time I saw it. Something happens to the patient's blood when it is in mine – it seems to somehow fuse with or camouflage the mutation, so when it is returned to the host, it heals without provoking an immune response. The time it takes my mutation to heal the host decreases exponentially."

Maddy could hear the excitement in her own voice, tried to calm down. She had been working on this in between procedures for the last six weeks, hadn't wanted to tell Hank until she was sure of what she was seeing. Now she allowed herself a moment of pride as she watched his quick brain draw the dots between what she was showing him and what they both wanted most – a cure for Charles. But then he frowned.

"Maddy, you know there's no way to be sure the same thing would happen with Charles. For one thing, a blood disorder is very different from a severed spinal cord."

"I know that Hank, but the procedure with Charles proved that in theory at least, my mutation can cure his-" Hank cut her off gently.

"Moreover, we can't extrapolate from this to guess at what his immune response might be. It looks like camouflaging your blood through a transfusion of the patient's blood to you in the first instance negates the patient's immune response. But that response in humans has never been strong enough to counteract the beneficial effects of your blood in any case; it just delays matters. Charles's body rejected your blood so powerfully he went into shock. Mutant-to-mutant transfer seems to be violently incompatible. This might not work at all. Just putting Charles's blood into you in the first place might send YOU into shock!"

She was downcast. She had been so carried away with the success of her experiment, these counter-arguments hadn't occurred to her.

"Isn't it at least worth a shot?" she asked, in a small voice. He put a comforting hand on her back.

"Of course it would be, scientifically. But if we've learnt one thing from the original procedure, it's that there's a lot more to this than science. Charles hasn't been the same since the procedure failed. Before you came, he had more or less come to terms with his disability. Now, he's having to go through that whole process again, and he's finding it so much harder. We can't offer him more hope unless we're as sure as we can be that we'll deliver."

Maddy knew he was right; but it was hard to hide her disappointment. Every time she saw Charles these days, the guilt was almost more than she could bear.

The worst of it was how he had to get involved with the successful transplants she and Hank had been performing on human children. Hank would discreetly identify deserving candidates through his old contacts from medical school; the procedures would go ahead, so far without a single hitch. However, then there were the grateful parents to be dealt with, the ones who thought they had witnessed a miracle, who might tell people out there in the world about the dark-haired woman who had cured their dying child. If word got out – if Fiskel found out where she was…

And so they needed Charles, to throw some psychic interference up, to quell the questioning, to take away the memories of the procedures, of the mansion, leaving only relief that their sick child was now well. Although he claimed to be happy to do it, she couldn't help but feel that it was a particularly cruel torture to make him participate in a process he couldn't benefit from himself.

_But he will one day._ Maddy was determined, if it was the last thing she ever did, that one day she would find a way to give her gift to Charles without killing him. She stiffened her spine, looked up at Hank.

"You're right, of course you are. We can't just go in all guns blazing until we know exactly what we're dealing with here. But can we at least trial it with the humans? Like you said, none of their immune systems have reacted badly to my blood, but it does slow the healing up a bit. Can we try this process next time, see if it decreases recovery times?"

Hank nodded eagerly. "Of course we can. I'm not saying we'll never be able to use this discovery to help Charles. But let's learn more about how it works first."

* * *

_1 month later_

Erik was on his way to the sick bay, a journey he felt he was making all too often nowadays. Madeline was about to go under the knife again, and it had become his habit to go visit before and after.

At first this had been necessary to help her prepare herself – her fear of surgery had still on occasion threatened to overmaster her desire to help, and she had been quite naked in her need for him to be there as the anaesthetic stole her sight, to be there still when she woke again.

He had been reluctant at first – he disapproved completely and openly of this project, cutting up his friend for these humans; humans who couldn't even be trusted to know of the great gift she'd given them, in case they then betrayed her to Fiskel.

But Erik couldn't abide hypocrisy, least of all in himself. If he had been there for her when she was nerving herself up to help Charles, he couldn't very well refuse her now. She was getting into the swing of it at last, with barely a tremor of the terror she'd felt when first consigning herself to Hank's care. In truth, Erik had to admit, she had nothing to fear – Hank monitored her every breath and pulse beat with such assiduity that even Erik's misgivings about her safety were reluctantly resigned. His disapproval now was philosophical rather than practical.

As usual, she was delighted to see him. He liked the way she never assumed anything – although he had reported to her bedside like clockwork for fully five procedures, she always behaved as if his coming was a very pleasant surprise.

"Erik! How are you? I haven't seen you in ages!" He smiled tightly.

"Well, you spend so much time locked away up here. Where's Igor?" She shot him a reproving smile.

"You really shouldn't call him that, you know. At very least, he deserves the full credit of Dr. Frankenstein." Erik smiled, shook his head. As far as he was concerned, there was only one candidate for that role - Shaw. He preferred to characterize Hank as the mad doctor's shambling, inept, apocryphal assistant.

Their relationship, such as it was, had deteriorated so much since their confrontation in the lab that Erik took a perverse pleasure in baiting the younger man, but he hadn't yet drawn Maddy's attention to the continued blazing of the torch Hank carried for her. Although he would have enjoyed Hank's discomfiture, he didn't want to make Maddy's life any more difficult than it was.

"Hank's just sorting out Wilson and his mom. They'll be in soon, and then we can get going." Erik rolled his eyes at the affection in her tone as she mentioned this month's recipient. Erik had gathered that he was a nine-year-old with chronic liver failure. Now Maddy proceeded to fill him in now on far more details than he had ever cared to know – the boy's siblings, his likes and dislikes, even his hopes for being selected for Little League baseball once he was better.

"Why do you waste time getting to know these kids, Madeline? It's not like you'll see them again, not like they will remember you." She smiled.

"But I'll remember them. Sally. Abel. Faizal. Anna. Marshall." For each name, she tapped a scar proudly through her gown. "I'll remember all of their names, their faces. And one day maybe I'll see them on the news, winning a Nobel prize or the Olympic Games or topping the charts. And I'll know that only happened because of me." Erik sneered.

"Or maybe you'll see them on the news blowing up a bus or robbing a bank." She rolled her eyes.

"Don't spoil this for me Erik. I'm doing what I need to to get through – everything that's happened. So is Hank. If you think you've found a better way of dealing with it, just let me know." He winced. She had her point. She always did.

"Fine, fine. I just wanted to check you were OK, that's all." She smiled, her irritation with his cynical approach forgotten.

"That's sweet of you. Don't worry about me. Hank's all over it. I think he's even starting to get bored - everything goes like clockwork, every time. I'll see you after?" He nodded, gave her shoulder a squeeze.

"Always. Be well, Maddy."

And with that, he was gone. It was hours later when Charles came and found him in the Library, a grave look on his face.

"Something terrible has happened, Erik." Erik went cold. Charles was not the sort of person to say such things lightly. Visions of catastrophe passed before his eyes: soldiers advancing on the mansion. Mutant children dragged from their beds screaming. His world, their world, the life they had built together, in flames.

"What is it, Charles?" Tears started in the telepath's blue eyes.

"The procedure. Madeline's procedure – it went wrong." Erik came to his feet.

"Is she- is she-"

Charles shook his head. "Not our Maddy. The boy." Erik sank down into the chair again, put a hand over his eyes.

_Just the boy. Only the human. Not her_. Charles gave him a wounded look.

"He was only a child, Erik. Don't you have any pity for him, for his family?" Erik looked at him, lost for words. It wasn't that he didn't feel sorry for the boy; but that paled into nothing beside the awesome relief it wasn't her. He looked at Charles, wordlessly pleading with him to understand. Eventually Charles nodded, dashed the tears out of his eyes.

Hank says it happened before they had even really started the process. They had transferred the boy's blood into Madeline's circulatory system, kept him going with a transfusion until they could transfer it back from her to him. But then he had an allergic reaction to the anaesthetic. Hank said they couldn't have predicted it – just one of those things." Charles's voice broke, and Erik wondered at his lover's incredible heart, that he could find so much love inside him to weep for a human boy he had barely known.

"I've had to wipe his parents' memories of this, of course. It felt wrong, but how else could I protect the school? Unauthorised surgery ending in death? No matter that it would have happened anywhere - it would have been the end of us. They're going back to Arizona on the train, in the belief that their son's body has been in the morgue there for some days. Hank and I will have to escort it there in the jet, and see to it that by the time they get there, the relevant authorities think the same thing."

Erik passed a hand in front of his eyes. Charles already had so much on his plate. Couldn't he have been spared this miserable task? Lying went against his nature, and lying about something so tragic as this was going to leave a scar upon his soul. But what else could be done?

Erik knew there was nothing he could say, so he simply went to Charles, knelt beside his chair, pressed his forehead into the side of Charles's face. The stayed that way for a moment, sharing pain, and forlorn comfort. With a sigh, Charles finally patted him on the shoulder in an attempt at briskness. Erik stood up.

"Madeline?"

"She's asleep. Someone should be with her when she wakes, someone she trusts. I'm sure she's going to take it very hard. She really loves those children, every one. I tried to find Raven, but she's off on one of her mystery jaunts again – I never know where she is nowadays." Erik heard the frustration in his lover's voice. Raven had become increasingly elusive since Charles's procedure; Erik had half a feeling he knew why, but he had chosen not to pursue the suspicion. Whatever he knew, Charles would glean from his mind soon enough, and Erik didn't like to think how the telepath would react if Erik was right about Mystique and Azazel. He shook the thought away, took Charles's hand.

"I'll go to her. Do you have to go now?" Charles nodded. Erik thumbed his lower lip gently. "Come home soon, _Schatz_. Stay safe." Charles turned over Erik's hand, kissed his palm.

"I will, my love. And you stay strong, for her."

* * *

_Maddy was in the stands at Phoenix Municipal Stadium, watching the Firebirds step out to bat. The whole crowd was on its feet, but Maddy could see everything because she was sitting on her father's shoulders, taller even than the pitcher who Maddy longed to be with every fiber of her being. As the first ball hit the bat, the crack made her jump almost out of her skin-_

With a gasp, Maddy sat up in bed. She was alone in the sick bay, and that by itself was enough to alarm her. Even if Erik hadn't remembered to be here, Hank wouldn't ever have left her if he had any choice. And where was Wilson?

She felt strange. Not _bad_, exactly – in fact, she'd never felt so wide awake, and stronger than she ever had before. But her skin throbbed and itched with nervous energy, and her head felt too – _full_, full of information, full of the sights and sounds and scents pouring in on her, full of the dream of that day at the baseball field –

_That had never happened_. She had never been to a baseball game, had never even been to Arizona. The dream had had the quality of memory; but not her memory. It was too imprecise for her photographic mind. And where had been the scents? All of her memories were linked to scents, as was only natural given her mutated sense of smell.

She took a deep breath, and her whole body went rigid. An involuntary moan escaped her lips.

_What was _that _smell?_

After almost twenty years with her nose, Maddy thought that she had smelled everything that could be classified as food. Most of it only on the breath or clothes of her captors, of course – until recently, until she had escaped to the luxury of Charles's home, her food had been undistinguished hospital slop. Since she had been free, she had experimented broadly – Charles especially took a great delight in introducing her to some arcane or mundane foodstuff for the first time. She had found she had a taste for fresh white bread, for tea, red wine, peaches, asparagus, and (predictably) chocolate. She had found she loved food, now that she had the chance, the choice.

But she had never smelled anything so appealing as the scent that dominated her senses right now, something savoury, salty, something, something-

Before she'd even decided to move, she found herself standing in front of a steel-fronted cabinet, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Wires were trailing from her arms, and monitoring machines had been pulled over by her passage, lay bleeping plaintively upon the floor. She glanced in brief dismay at the destruction she had wrought, but couldn't keep her attention for long on anything but the scent filling her nostrils, coming from within the cabinet. What _was _it?

She opened the cabinet, and found herself bathed in the cool blue glow of a refrigerator. The smell was so intense now she could taste it, something rich and unctuous, something, _something_-

Blood. The fridge was full of blood bags. Her pupils contracted, and she suddenly felt the tips of her teeth on her tongue. Without intending to, she reached out, took a plastic pouch of red liquid in each hand. Now she recognized it, of course she did, but blood had never smelt like _this_ before. She raised both hands up to her face-

"Maddy?"

She was so startled by the voice she jumped, stumbled across the room – or should have stumbled. Instead she found her back against the wall before she could blink, her every muscle tensed for fight or flight. An involuntary snarl leapt to her lips; the blood bags were still clutched jealously in her hands. One of them had split in the strength of her grip; the cold, viscous liquid ran over her hands, pooled on the floor. Erik was standing in the door of the sick bay, staring at her in consternation.

"How did you do that? I barely saw you move. One minute you were over there, and then-"

But although she was watching his lips move, she found she couldn't make sense of his words. The smell was all around her now, taking her over, calling out to her from the pool on the floor, the stains on her own hands, even singing out hotly from under her skin –

_Under my skin. Blood under my skin. Not my blood._

She dropped the other bag, breathed heavily through her mouth, tried to ignore the urgent, wordless imperative that took her over every time she caught the scent. She looked at Erik helplessly. He blanched.

"_Mein Gott_," he breathed. "What the hell happened to your eyes?" She blinked, reached for a scalpel lying on the table next to her. Erik took a defensive backward step. Was he afraid – of _her_? The very thought made her even more scared herself. What was happening?

With a shaking hand, she raised the scalpel to eye height, looked at herself in the reflective blade. Instead of the familiar forest green, her wary eyes were a deep reddish-brown. The scalpel clattered sharply on the floor as she spun round on him, so fast she almost knocked herself over.

"Erik?" she gasped. "What's _happening_ to me?"


	20. Chapter 20

Erik tried to stay calm, even though the world seemed to be going mad around him. This _was _Maddy, he was quite sure of that, in spite of the fact she didn't look right – there was the eyes, for one thing, and her skin – it seemed to glow, in a way that had nothing to do with exercise. And she was moving much too fast. Every movement, every flicker of a bulb in the fluorescent lights overhead, caused her to twitch. He noted too how her eyes kept darting to the pool of blood leaking from the broken bag at her feet – what on earth was she doing with that?

"Madeline. I need you to stay calm. Something has happened, but it's going to be alright."

He wondered if that sounded more convincing than it felt; he was trying to channel Charles, to emulate the soothing sangfroid that the telepath could summon at will no matter the situation. In fact, Erik was unselfconsciously yelling for help down the mental link the two of them shared; this situation was far more Charles's speed, or Hank's – Erik felt all at sea. No hope of help from that route though, he knew – Charles's range only ran so far without Cerebro's amplification, and Charles was halfway across the country by now. Erik was on his own.

She was suddenly in front of him, and he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Erik had learned to rely on his instincts, back when every hand was turned against him, when a moment's unwariness meant death. But he couldn't understand his apprehension now; she was just a frightened little girl, for goodness' sake. He steeled himself against his inexplicable attack of nerves, put a hand on her shoulder; she flinched.

"Where's Hank? Where's Wilson?"

Even her voice sounded different – more resonant somehow, as if her voicebox had been lined with velvet. Erik shook that errant thought away, prepared himself to tell her the worst.

"Hank and Charles have had to go and take care of something. I'm sorry; the procedure didn't go the way you planned-" he saw the dawning horror in her eyes.

"He's dead isn't he? Wilson's dead."

She began to cry, silent, oddly pinkish tears streaming down her face. "My blood killed him, didn't it?"

Erik shook his head vehemently, tightened his grip on her shoulder.

"Your blood never got near him. It happened too quickly; they transfused his blood into you, then he died of a complication with the anaesthetic. It wasn't your fault, wasn't anybody's fault." She blinked.

"I've still got his blood inside me?"

He nodded. Her strange, red-brown eyes went dark; she had begun to tremble violently.

"What's happening to me, Erik? I feel so – strange. I feel – strong. Too strong. Too fast. I can remember memories that aren't mine, that couldn't be mine, and-" she looked helplessly back to the blood, wiped her stained hands guiltily on her gown, shuddered. She gave him a pleading look. "I need to get out of here."

He guided her into the hallway, remembered the last time they'd been there together, when she had brought him the news that Charles had survived the procedure. She had helped him then; he tried to help her now, pulled her into an awkward hug.

Her reaction alarmed him – her body seemed to somehow flow into his, her thin cotton robe barely there, her warm flesh closer suddenly than his own skin. Her hands ran up his back, and when he looked questioningly into her eyes, he saw something there he had never seen before – desire, pure and primal. He took an awkward step back.

"Maddy?" She blinked, then blushed vermillion.

"I- I'm sorry! I don't know what- I don't-" she was backing away from him, bumped into the wall. She dropped her eyes. "I don't know what's wrong with me. You should stay away. When will Hank come back? He'll know what to do."

Erik frankly doubted that. It was Charles he wanted, Charles who could make some sort of sense of what was going on in the girl's head.

"They'll both be back soon. You just need to calm down, and – put some clothes on, maybe?" Her blush deepened, if that were possible.

"Will you bring me something to wear please?" she whispered.

He nodded, eager to do something practical to help, and happy for the opportunity to get away for a minute, to alleviate some of the awkwardness she was obviously feeling about what had been revealed – awkwardness he shared in full measure, as it happened.

As he walked to her room, pulled clothes randomly from the drawers, he tried to process what had happened, hear Hank's angry accusation from months ago in his head: _"Anyone can see she's got some ridiculous hero-worship crush on you." _Erik had dismissed the jibe out of hand, thinking that Hank was just jealous, angry.

Now he wasn't so sure. He thought of Maddy as a little sister, nothing more. But the creature upstairs wasn't the Madeline he had gotten to know over the months, a shy, innocent, vulnerable girl. She was something else. What, he didn't yet know. What he was certain of was that whatever she might feel for him was being amplified by the strange alchemy at work within her blood. He would have to be careful – not to hurt her; or let her hurt him.

When he came back to the hallway, her face was pressed against the wall, and she was inhaling deeply, as if trying to concentrate on the smell of the painted concrete to the exclusion of any other thought. She heard his light tread as soon as he rounded the corner, whipped round with that terrifying speed. She reached out for the clothes gingerly, snatched them without touching his skin.

"Thank you," she mumbled, not meeting his eye, and darted off to the sickbay. Erik stood in the hall, not wanting to leave her, but absolutely certain she wouldn't want him to follow her in. He was hovering indecisively, when a terrified scream propelled him across the threshold as if fired from a gun.

"MADELINE!" he yelled as he burst in. She barrelled into his arms, naked, clutching her discarded gown to her breasts. She was incoherent with terror, and he had to shake her to get her blind red-brown eyes to focus on his face.

"Maddy, what is it? Tell me what's happened!" She was shaking wildly, but forced the words through her chattering teeth.

"My scars. My scars! They're- they're gone!"

Erik's pupils contracted with disbelief, shock. But it was true; he ran a hand over her back, found nothing but smooth skin. The knotted whorls of scar tissue that had covered her torso, legacy of a hundred surgeries, were gone.

She began to sob hysterically, and Erik gathered her into his arms, wrapped her back up in the discarded gown. He sank down with his back against the wall, rocked her back and forth like a baby until her weeping had subsided into choking, shuddering breaths.

"It's going to be alright," he murmured. "Don't be scared. It's going to be alright."

That was how Hank and Charles found them hours later. Maddy had cried herself to sleep at last; her face was stained with red-tinged tears.

"What the _hell-_" Hank demanded angrily. Erik silenced him with a murderous look, put a finger to his lips, indicated the sleeping girl with an incline of his head.

"Funny you should ask that, _Herr Doktor_," Erik hissed. "I was going to ask you the same thing. What the _hell _have you done to the poor girl?"

* * *

_**AN: **OK guys, it's getting a little wild - but stick with me! All will eventually make sense (of sorts). I'd really, massively appreciate a review or two - even just to say you're still with me! I'm having so much fun writing the fic, would be great to know others are enjoying it as well. All the best! Next chapter in the works even as we speak._


	21. Chapter 21

Hank shone a light into Madeline's eyes, took her pulse, listened to her breathing. At least she was dressed now – he had found it hard to concentrate when she was not quite wearing what was left of her bloodstained hospital gown.

She was sitting on Xavier's desk – they'd had to leave the sick bay, where the smell of the spilt blood had been driving her to distraction. He had thought this would be futile – after all, they were all full of blood as well – but as soon as they had left that wing of the house, she had been able to calm down a lot. Apparently mutant blood didn't have the same allure for her as humans' did in her new altered state. Interesting. He made a note of it, took a step back.

"Well, I don't really know what else to test. She's in the most fantastic health of anyone I've ever seen. If people were robots, she'd be factory fresh – her lungs are working like they've never been used, her skin's got the elasticity of a newborn baby. The reason her eyes have gone red is because the irises are filled with blood. I would have said hyphema, but it isn't that; her vision's not impaired at all, in fact it's better than 20/20 – don't ask me how, I'm not an optometrist. Reflexes are off the chart, and her speed and strength is-" Madeline grabbed the torch out of his hand, threw it hard against the wall where it wedged in the wooden paneling.

"I am _here_, Hank. Talk to _me_, not to them!"

The anger in her voice took him aback. Madeline had never raised her voice to him, not once in all the time they'd known each other. Hank stepped back smartly, stood on Erik's foot, leapt away from him and almost fell over Charles's chair. Madeline's anger disappeared as quickly as it had come, and she laughed – a wild, joyous laugh. Then, just as suddenly, she clapped her hand over her mouth in shock, whispered: "how can I laugh, with poor little Wilson dead, and-" her bloody eyes misted over with tears.

Hank took a deep breath, put a hand on her shoulder. Her emotional volatility was the most alarming aspect of the change she'd undergone since the transfusion.

"It's all right. You just need to calm down." She stared at him dolefully, pink streaks marring her face as the tears spilled over.

"I can _feel_ him, Hank. I can feel Wilson's memories, his dreams, his _life_. It's obscene. Do you have a test that can explain _why_?" Hank shook his head.

"The whole thing is beyond anything I've ever heard of. It can only be attributed to the infusion of his blood that's still in you. We've never left a patient's blood in you for this long – the transfused blood has always been returned to the original host as soon as your blood fused with it. It's the only variable. But obviously, this isn't normal. I can only assume it is related in some way to your mutation, your ability to heal – the blood seems to have unlocked some latent abilities, some – traits. That's why your scars have vanished, and why you're acting so – differently."

Maddy and Erik caught one another's eye, then quickly looked away. Madeline blushed. Hank's eyes narrowed as he looked from one to the other.

"Is there anything else I ought to know?"

Maddy shook her head violently, went scarlet. Hank thought to pursue the question, but then Charles interrupted.

"These changes – are they permanent?"

The colour bleached from Maddy's face. Hank shook his head vigorously.

"Absolutely not. The blood test demonstrates that. Your body seems to be burning the human blood off somehow, using it to fuel the abnormalities. Once it's run out, you should be right back to the way that you're meant to be – your eyes are already less red, see?" He held up a magnifying mirror to her face. She peered in, and exhaled with relief when she saw that the solid red-brown was interspersed with flecks of her familiar green. Then she put out a hand – too fast – and grabbed Hank's wrist, too hard. He tried not to flinch.

"And what about the – the way blood smells to me? And the blood memories? Will they wear off too?" Her voice was urgent, low. Hank shrugged helplessly.

"I don't know. They don't make any scientific sense. We can only hope that they will go when the rest of the symptoms subside."

"Symptoms? You're making it sound like she's sick."

Hank had almost forgotten about Erik, in his eagerness to reassure Maddy. Now he spun round. The metal bender was looking at Maddy with a sort of gleeful awe. Ignoring Hank, he stepped toward the girl, stood over her.

"How do you _feel_, Madeline? Never mind the fear; put that aside. How do you _really_ feel?"

She seemed to be considering the question. When she looked up at him, there was a wondering look in her eyes.

"I feel – good, actually. Really good. Strong." Erik smiled, lifted her chin.

"Then why would you want it to wear off?"

Hank's mouth dropped open. The man was _unbelievable_.

"What are you talking about? This is a freak incident, an awful mistake. It will be over soon, and then everything will be back to normal." Erik's face clouded over with anger.

"Normal for whom? Perhaps this is normal for her. Perhaps she's just never had a chance to explore her true nature before. What are you so afraid of, Hank?"

Hank felt irritation fill his chest, making it hard for him to breathe.

"I'm not _afraid_, Erik. I am _concerned_. Madeline isn't herself, you can see that. I don't pretend to understand what the blood in her body's done to her, but it obviously isn't natural."

By way of answer, Erik raised a hand, and the metal torch Maddy had embedded in the wall flew into his grasp. He quirked an eyebrow infuriatingly, held the torch out to Hank. He snatched it from the metal bender, glowering.

"Beast, look at yourself. Look at me. We're _mutants_. What's natural? Just _look_ at her. Does she look sick to you?"

Hank looked at Maddy. She looked… radiant, truth be told. Her variegated eyes were filled with life, with light. Her skin had a pearlescent sheen to it. And when she slid down off the desk, her movements had a grace reminiscent of something feline.

"I don't feel wrong, Hank. But Erik-" she choked on a sob – "it doesn't feel right either. I can't seem to control myself at all – my feelings, my reactions. And I can't _stand_ having that poor little boy's memories in my head, I can't!" She dropped on her knees in front of Charles, who had been watching the argument unfold with a troubled look on his face. Maddy put a hand on his arm.

"Charles, _please_ – take his memories away from me. They're not mine, and it feel's wrong to carry them." Charles sighed, covered her hand with his.

"Are you sure, Madeline? I don't like to interfere with people's minds any more than is strictly necessary." She nodded emphatically.

"_Please_." With a sad expression, Charles raised his fingers to his temple, shut his eyes. Then they flew open, widened with surprise.

"I can't." Maddy looked at him pleadingly.

"Why?"

"The memories – they're not in your mind; they're in the blood. They'll stay with you as long as the blood does. I can see them there, like a – like a ghost of a mind. But my power can't touch it."

Her face fell. Hank patted her back consolingly.

"You see? It's better this way. As soon as the rest of the blood burns off, the memories will go. You wouldn't want to drag this out, would you?" She shook her head, looking defeated. Erik made a sound of protest, cut it off when Charles shot him a warning look, some silent message. Hank smiled at Charles, grateful for this support.

"Would you like to come back to the sick bay? We can store the blood somewhere else, don't worry – you could rest there, until-" but Madeline was shaking her head.

"I can't rest. I feel too – alive. I think I might go for a run, clear my head – blow off some steam." This last with another nervous glance at Erik that Hank couldn't decipher. The metal bender had started forward at her mention of a run.

"I'll come with you-" he began, but she cut him off with a desperate smile.

"No, please – I think I had better be on my own." And with that, she was gone, out of the room and the mansion so fast she left a light breeze in her wake.

* * *

Hank had left, looking despondent – disappointed, Erik supposed, that he hadn't been able to get Maddy on lockdown until her power was safe and tame again. Erik was about to leave too, to follow Madeline, to try and talk to her before Hank had a chance to get his claws into her-

_Erik. No._

Erik shook his head violently, trying to dislodge Charles's restraining voice from his head.

"Leave Madeline alone, Erik. You heard what she said. And you might as well know I've told Hank exactly the same thing. The last thing the poor girl needs now is the two of you scrapping over her like two dogs with a bone."

Erik exhaled heavily, began pacing. He was surprised to feel himself getting angry. He so rarely got angry with Charles. But he didn't have time for a lecture, not now.

"I only want to help her, Charles. You know that."

"So does Hank." Erik snorted.

"Like he wanted to help Raven?"

"_Yes_, Erik. Just because you disagree with him about how, that doesn't mean his heart's not in the right place."

Erik groaned, whirled round.

"He was wrong then and he's wrong now. She doesn't need to be cured, to be fixed. She needs to accept what she is, like Raven has. But she's afraid; if someone doesn't talk to her, help her to get her head around all this, she'll run away from it."

Charles frowned.

"Erik, calm down. I know you care about her; I know how strongly you feel about this. But she needs to make her own decisions. Her mutation is unlike any that I've ever seen before; and the implications of it are – concerning. No wonder she's afraid! If she wants to take a step back from it-"

Erik slammed his fist into Charles's desk.

"She _is_ a step _forward_, Charles! That's the 'implication' you're doing your best to ignore."

Charles's eyes went dark as he took Erik's meaning. He pursed his lips.

"No. No. No. I'm not having you turn what's happened to Madeline into part of your ridiculous ideology."

Erik gasped.

"_My _ridiculous ideology? It's _your _thesis, Charles! We're outstripping the humans, evolving to replace them. She's the proof; her powers are stimulated by _human _blood, Charles."

"And _her_ blood _heals _humans, Erik! How does that fit into your worldview?"

Erik shrugged negligently. Charles threw up his hands.

"You see? You always do this. You pick and choose the science that supports your prejudice, but you never follow any of it through. Madeline may be many things. But what she is not is any kind of justification for your vendetta against humanity! If you want to be a eugenicist, Erik, at least have the courage of your own conviction; don't try and excuse yourself by bowdlerizing theories you don't understand – least of all mine!"

The furious contempt in Charles's voice gave Erik pause. This was an ancient argument between the two, but it had never been this bitter. But then, until now it had always been theoretical. Now they had been confronted with the living, breathing evidence of what Erik had always suspected – that mutants and humans were not made for peaceful coexistence.

The metal bender was bewildered by Charles's intransigence in the face of this proof, and hurt by his accusations – if anyone ought to be above the petty prejudices of eugenics, it was Erik. But he was worried about Charles too. The younger man had had such a hellish time of late – it grieved Erik to fight with him when he ought to be trying to comfort him. He forced himself to swallow the angry retort that leapt into his throat, sank down onto his knees next to Charles.

"You don't mean that, _liebling_. You're tired. You've had an awful day. If it bothers you so much, I won't talk to Madeline now. It will wait."

Charles stared at him in helpless frustration, obviously wanting to argue; then he shut his eyes, defeated by his own exhaustion.

"I am tired. That didn't come out the way I meant it. I'm sorry." He put a conciliatory hand on Erik's arm. "I just… don't want you to get carried away. This… fixation of yours, it frightens me sometimes. It came so close in Cuba to costing so many lives, costing _your_ life. I fear that one day it may lead you to do something that you – that all of us – will profoundly regret." Charles leant in to Erik, pushed his forehead against the German's cheek. "Why can't you let it go, Erik? Put all that hate and fear into the past? For – for the school?"

_For me. _Erik heard the silent appeal loud and clear, although Charles hadn't said it, either out loud or in Erik's head. And it tore into his heart. But he couldn't give Charles what he wanted. The hatred and the fear weren't his – it was humanity's, and he couldn't ignore the inevitability of their extinction any more than they would when they realized their fate. He had tried, all this time since Cuba he had been trying, but Madeline's condition had changed everything. It _proved _that he had been right all along.

He pressed his forehead to Charles's, kissed him sadly, and for a moment, skin to skin with his lover, he felt so lonely he wanted to cry. No-one understood him, no-one. Not even Charles.


	22. Chapter 22

_Madeline is flying. Or that's how it feels. She's running like it's what she was born to do, whipping through the air like a flag, bare feet barely brushing the wet ground. Her breath is deep and even, even at this speed, and so she pushes herself harder, realises that she's lapped the grounds in less than a third of the time it usually takes. She thinks about stopping, but this just feels so _good_ – the smell of juicy grass crushed underfoot, the snap of coming autumn in the evening air, the blood thundering through her body, making her feel strong and whole. She leans into the run, pushes forward_.

* * *

Raven was walking back toward the house, trying to shake the sense of unreality that always clung to her after she had spent time with Azazel. She had asked him to drop her at the gate, which he had accepted without comment – although they hadn't discussed it, it was understood between them that she wasn't ready for their liaison to become common knowledge. Raven was grateful for his wordless acceptance – she didn't want to have to explain why, not to Azazel, and not to herself. Not yet.

This time, he had taken her to Yellowstone Park. He tended to prefer wild, isolated places, for obvious reasons, Raven supposed. She had come to prefer it too. They had at first gone to visit cities Raven had read about in magazines – Paris, Barcelona, Marrakech – and walked the streets with Raven in human disguise, Azazel bundled up in baggy coat and gloves with a scarf pulled up to his eyes, quietly cursing the late summer heat. Raven's excitement was tainted – with anger that she had to hide herself, and guilt that the same luxury wasn't available to her lover.

_Her lover._ It still gave her a jolt to think of him that way. The term 'boyfriend' seemed utterly absurd; but he was definitely _something_ to her now, and 'lover' seemed the most appropriate word. She tried to imagine explaining it to Charles; couldn't. Well, in all likelihood the need wouldn't arise; Charles had his own concerns at present, and Azazel wasn't exactly the sort of man to ask for anyone's permission for… whatever it was that they were doing.

Of course, in the main they were doing wasn't something she'd discuss with her brother, not if you put a gun to her head. Raven gave a secret shiver, felt a sly smile spread across her face. _That_ side of things was straightforward, at least, for both of them.

Raven had been around the block before – her hunger for validation had led to a string of short affairs with an array of drooling high-school jocks (Charles had joked he could hear the grinding of gears in their heads as they struggled to form full sentences), and older men unable to believe their luck. Her sexual experiences had consequently run the gamut between satisfactory and dire, but her inability to just let _go_, lest she slip up and lose control of her disguise, had been a constant sticking point, as had her refusal to stay the night – she couldn't risk her various paramours catching her asleep, reverted to her natural form.

Everything was so _different_ with Azazel.

The simple fact the he knew what she was, and the fact that for him her blue skin, her scales, were actually desirable in and of themselves, meant more to her than words could say. She could focus on her pleasure, rather than her appearance, and the more selfishly she pursued it the better Azazel liked it. Moreover, without the inhibition of her default human incarnation, Raven found her mutation offered certain… benefits with regard to flexibility and creativity which had at first surprised and then delighted him.

They didn't talk too much; Raven joked in her head that they had better things to do. But really, she knew that she avoided more than superficial conversation with Azazel because she was becoming more and more worried about what he might say – and what she might feel if he did.

Although he was great in bed (or wherever), she sensed that this was more passionate virtuosity on his part than the skill born of experience. He couldn't have had many, if any, lovers before her, not looking like he did. Certainly not ones who he could also walk and joke with; certainly not ones who would fall asleep wrapped in his arms.

Raven remembered the first time she had dozed off after their love-making – it was in a hotel room in Marrakech, to the sound of the muezzin. She had woken up slowly, not quite remembering where she was. Azazel had been gazing down at her, one leg thrown over her hip, the tip of his tail wrapped gently around her wrist, a look of tender triumph on his face. That was the moment she had realised he was in this far deeper than she was, or than she wanted to be. She had tried to push the knowledge away, unwilling to give up the way Azazel could make her forget – about Charles, about Madeline, about Hank, about being a mutant, about everything, really – and equally reluctant to admit to herself she was using him, taking advantage of his feelings for her. But in her heart of hearts, she knew that soon they'd have to have The Talk. She sighed, wondering why she couldn't havejust _one _good, simple thing in her life.

Suddenly, Raven tensed. She had heard something coming up ahead, much too fast to be human. She crouched down as the undergrowth began to rustle, sprang as the _thing_ burst out into the path-

And was flung back so hard she slammed into a nearby tree hard enough to make her see stars. She sank to the ground, hand going to the back of her head, eyes flicking up to assess her assailant.

It was Madeline. She was standing over Raven in familiar grey joggers and bare feet, her face aghast, her muddy eyes gone round with shock.

"Raven? I'm so sorry, I didn't know that it was you! I just- reacted!" She wrung her hands, then darted forward, making Raven flinch with her speed.

"You're bleeding! Are you alright?"

Raven reached up and touched her torn mouth, spat blood.

"I'm fine – just bit my lip, that's all. What the hell happened to you?"

Maddy sighed with relief; then her face crumpled.

"Oh Raven, it's been so awful."

Maddy began to cry. Her tears were pink, Raven noticed, as she got to her feet and took her friend into her arms. She had gone away to get away from her worries, but in her absence, it looked like they'd multiplied.

* * *

_**AN: Next chapter will be a biggy, so here's a little wee one to keep you going. Would also like to say on this one that if you haven't read it, you should trundle over to PragmaticHominid's profile and read his/her amazing story Devil - I read it ages ago, and although it goes a different way with plotting, I have taken on board its representation of Azazel and Mystique's relationship hugely, so I just wanted that out there in case I'm unconsciously pinching anything -it's unintentional and rooted in fervent admiration! Thanks so much to those who are reviewing - makes all the difference in the world, truly :)**_


	23. Chapter 23

Erik paced the yard outside the kitchen like a tiger on a leash. As the dusk deepened, he acknowledged to himself that once again, Madeline wasn't going to show up for what had been their habitual run. Reaching a decision at last, he turned on his heel, marched purposefully back into the house. He had been waiting at the same time every day for three days now, and his always meagre supply of patience was exhausted.

He understood _why_ Madeline had been avoiding him, but that didn't mean he was going to meekly accept it forever. After all, the effects of Wilson's blood had worn off days ago, lasting a scant twenty-four hours before her eyes were green again, her emotions back under her control, her strength and speed a fraction of what they had been – what they could be. So why was she _still_ reluctant to be with him?

Raven had tried to explain it to him, after he had complained to her (half-hoping, he admitted to himself, that she would relay his discontent to Maddy).

"It wasn't just the blood, Erik, that's the problem. OK, that made her horny, and less able to control her impulses. But those impulses didn't just drop clean out of a clear blue sky. Both of you had been kidding yourselves about Madeline's feelings for you. She doesn't have that luxury now, knows what it is she wants from you, and knows you know it too –of course she's _mortified_. She _loves_ Charles, she would _never _want to take you away from him – and she knows she couldn't, even if she did. She's terrified that he'll figure it out – its bad enough _you _knowing. The best thing you can do right now is just leave her alone, let her get over it and move on with her life. Take it from me."

Usually, Erik appreciated the shape-shifter's no-holds-barred, devil-be-damned honesty – but not this time. He felt both acutely embarrassed by her assessment of Madeline's feelings, and illogically hurt that Maddy would confide in Raven about this but not in him, after all that they had shared. Most of all, though, he was frustrated. He felt strongly that time was of the essence – the further away Maddy got from her experience of her new powers, the easier she would find it to turn her back on them.

And goodness knows, that's what she was being encouraged toward by some of the people she trusted most – Hank especially, but even Charles to a degree. Erik knew he had an ally in Raven – she, like him, saw only potential in Madeline's new abilities; but she was also of the view that what Maddy needed was to be left in peace to make her own decision.

Erik knew better: what Maddy needed was his guidance, just as Raven had not long ago. Although of course, he'd done such a number on her it worked against his own interest in this case. He'd told her she was strong, that she was capable, that she had to make her own choices; and she'd taken it on board so wholeheartedly that now she wouldn't listen to a damn thing anybody told her, least of all Erik. He grinned ruefully in spite of himself. He couldn't help but be proud, not matter how inconvenient Raven's independent thinking might be at the present.

Regardless; he wasn't going to just let this thing lie. In the creature that Madeline had so briefly become, and in the means of her transformation, he had caught a glimpse of the destiny of his species. He had to know more.

* * *

Maddy was reading in bed when three smart raps on the door brought her head up sharply. She knew there was only one person it could be – Raven would never knock, and Hank tapped so apologetically she always knew when it was him.

_Oh God. _

She felt the blush burn up her face, her heart start to bang sickeningly against her ribcage. Why had she thought she could avoid Erik forever?

"C-come in!" she called, hating herself for the cowardly quiver in her voice. She squared her shoulders as the door opened, willed herself to act normally. _This is your friend, your dear friend, that's all. The way you're feeling isn't Erik's fault_.

It was surprisingly OK once he'd walked in. The flesh and blood reality of him helped to dispel the cloud of fantasy and guilt that had been building up around the Erik in her head. His awkward smile as he sat on the bed was reassuring too – at least he wasn't mad at her, and at least he was obviously as embarrassed as she was. Maybe they would find a way forward from this together. She returned his smile shyly, met his eyes.

"I've missed out talks," he opened abruptly. She felt ashamed. Why had she been punishing him for her weakness?

"I'm sorry," she replied. "I've just – it's been a lot to deal with. Everything." Then she blurted out in a rush: "Erik, can we please just forget all about it? You know _I _know that there's nothing like _that_ between us – can we just chalk it up to the state I was in, put it behind us – just be friends again?" The pleading in her voice was obvious, and she could see that he was touched by it. Her knees were drawn up to her chin, and he reached out and put a hand on one of them, patted it awkwardly.

"Of course we can. I'll always be your friend." She smiled with relief. "But we can't just forget about it _all_," he continued, and her face fell.

"What do you mean?" she said, apprehensive. He leaned forward, his expression suddenly earnest.

"Madeline, what the blood did to you – you can't just pretend _that_ never happened. It's part of who you are."

Maddy went cold. Something about the way he said it sounded inevitable – almost like a curse. She shook her head vehemently.

"It isn't. Not if I don't want it to be." Erik's face went hard for a moment – then softened abruptly.

"You have no idea how many times I tried to tell myself that when I was a boy. When I first started to be able to move metal, I had no control – things just used to happen, frightening things. At first I thought I was crazy; then I thought I might have some sort of _dybbuk_."

Maddy quirked an eyebrow questioningly. Erik shrugged dismissively.

"A type of evil spirit. It's not important. The point is, when I realised that it was _me_ making these things happen, I realised that I could make it stop – and I did everything I could to rein it in, to hold it down, to try and just _be like everyone else_." His lip curled as he said the last four words. And then his expression changed, became desolate.

"I tried so hard I had almost succeeded by the time Klaus Schmidt found me. I'd pushed my power so far down below the surface I couldn't call it up when I needed it. My mother died because I tried to hide from who I was."

Madeline leaned forward, covered his hand with hers. "No, Erik. Your mother died because Shaw murdered her. It was _not_ your fault. You know that."

"But I could have saved her!" The sudden pain in his voice cut through her, threatened to set loose the tide of forbidden feeling for him she had been trying to dam up in her heart. He took a deep breath, tried to compose himself.

"I could have saved her if I had just accepted my gift from the start. If I hadn't have been afraid of it. That's what I want for all of us, Maddy – to accept what we are, to embrace it. That's what I want for you."

It had been a long time since Maddy had thought of Erik as dangerous; but when he gazed into her eyes right now, she understood that his most potent power was not his mutation, or even his boundless fury. It was the force of his personality, the clarity of his vision for their species. The seductive simplicity of it, and the passionate purity with which it was propounded, made his will almost impossible to resist. Nevertheless, she tried.

"But Erik, you saw how it was. I wasn't in control." He shrugged.

"Control is overrated. Control is the first step towards denial. Your abilities are natural to you, Madeline. Once you get used to them, you won't need to control them any more than you need to control your own breathing. But you never will get used to them if you won't even find out what they are." She knew her doubt must show in her face, but he obviously saw something else there as well, because suddenly, he changed tack. His voice took on an almost caressing tone.

"Tell me how it felt, when you were running. When Raven attacked you and you fought back. How did you feel?" She bit her lip, thought about it. Thought guiltily as well of the moment when she had pulled Erik into her arms in the sick bay. _How did you feel?_

"Powerful. Free."

The words dropped out without passing through her brain. She gasped, clapped her hand over her mouth. When she met Erik's eyes, they were alight with pride and triumph.

"Well don't you want to feel that way again?"

* * *

They crept into the darkened sick bay, illuminated only by the sickly light of a swollen yellow moon. Neither of them turned the lights on, and neither of them made mention of this. Although Erik was certain in himself that he was doing nothing wrong, there was an undeniably furtive feeling to their mission. Erik was focussed on his goal, but nonetheless was having trouble trying not to think about what Charles would say if he knew what they were up to. Erik could only hope he'd understand in time; Madeline was the future of their kind. Her gifts had to be encouraged, nurtured, not locked away inside of her. Charles would see that one day. He would forgive Erik for what he was about to do.

Madeline hesitated in the doorway between the lab and the sick bay, so Erik strode forward, threw back the door of the supply refrigerator. The girl froze in the blue glow like a rabbit in the headlights. The metal bender bent and pulled out a couple of pouches of blood, trying to ignore the trembling in his hands.

"Come here," he said, and Madeline approached, never taking her eyes off of the bags. He took in her apprehensive aspect, and put the pouches down on the gurney.

"Maddy?" She looked up at him, blinked, then set her shoulders back.

"I can't perform a blood infusion on myself. You'll have to do it," she said.

Erik took heart from her tone, her obvious determination to see the thing through. However, he was suddenly aware he had been so focussed on getting her this far that he hadn't given the slightest thought as to what happened next. He barely knew one end of a syringe from the other, might do her real harm if he made a mistake. He looked at Maddy helplessly, acutely conscious of the fragility of her new resolve, of the fact that this might be his only opportunity to give her the push she needed into her new life.

He picked up a scalpel, tore open a blood bag. He saw her throat constrict as the smell he could barely sense slammed into her mutated nose like a freight train. He grabbed her wrist, pushed the bag into her hand. Cold blood slopped over both their knuckles, dripped onto the floor. The sound seemed to echo in the air; both of them were suddenly breathing hard.

"Drink it," he whispered. She flinched.

"_Drink_ it? I am not an _animal_, Erik!" She hissed the words, and for a moment the wounded look in her eyes almost made Erik abandon the whole scheme. Almost.

"Madeline, listen: do you remember the way blood smelled to you when you had it in you? Do you remember what you wanted to do?" She closed her eyes, and both of them remembered the moment Erik had walked in on her standing by the fridge, holding the bags of blood up to her face. Her eyes snapped open. Looking into his, she slowly raised their joined hands, knotted round the bag, and tipped the thick red liquid down her throat.


	24. Chapter 24

_Fire. Madeline is full of fire, burning so hot inside her veins she feels like she's been threaded through with molten metal. Her stomach is a furnace, her eyeballs are boiling inside her head. It feels terrifying, wrong, and _wonderful_. She feels for the first time no distinction at all between her body and her mind – they are one, pure and purposeful as a weapon. Her eyes snap open._

Erik jumps back as she turned her gaze on him.

"Madeline…" he breathed. Her eyes flashed garnet in her gleaming face, much redder than they had been the last time. Everything was different this time, _more_. Even her _hair_ seemed to be glossed with red, glowing in the blue light of the refrigerator. Erik, who had looked death in the face more times than he could remember, felt a twinge of fear. _This is too much_, he thought. And then he shook his head, dismissing the cowardly thought. _No. This is what she is. It can't ever be too much_.

Madeline smiled at him, a wild, dangerous smile that made his heart hammer against his ribs. She grabbed the second blood bag, ripped it open with her teeth, sucked down the contents in one fluid gulp. She gasped with satisfaction, a throaty sound that put Erik in mind of the rough call of a bird of prey, descending on its quivering victim. Her hand whipped out and grabbed his, much too fast, too hard.

"I need to get out of this room," she said, and without warning pulled his arm over her shoulders and vaulted through the window of the lab.

Erik didn't have time to scream before they hit the grass outside, Maddy absorbing the shock of their fall into her heels as easily as if she had merely stepped off the sidewalk. There were fragments of glass and window frame caught in in her hair, so she shook her head wildly, laughing and spinning around like a top, so fast that she became a blur. Erik was trembling, leaning his hands heavily on his knees, having trouble convincing his brain that yes, he did just jump from a third storey window, but that no, he wasn't dead. He sucked in air, trying not to throw up. Suddenly, Madeline crouched down in front of him, her face expressive of concern.

"You're bleeding!" Erik looked at the backs of his hands and his arms. They were sprinkled with tiny cuts, some with splinters of glass and painted wood caught in them. Maddy's face, he noticed, was covered in the same small wounds.

"So are you-" he began. Even as he spoke, the cuts on the girl's face began to close and crust and disappear. He blinked.

"I guess I'm not as durable as you."

Guilt suffused her face, threatens to turn to tears. The volatility was back with a vengeance.

"I'm fine," he hastened to reassure her. "Nothing that won't heal."

He reached out to pat her hand – then turned it over in his own, seeking confirmation of what was obvious but simply couldn't be.

"Madeline, look. Look at your hand."

Her finger had grown back. The finger Fiskel cut off to see what would happen. It had grown back.

She stared at the new digit and her emotions warred across her face – horror, delight, fear, curiosity. And then they were both bathed in an oblong of yellow light, as a window in the front of the house lit up. Instinctively, she jumped backward into the shadows, dragging him with her.

"Somebody must have heard the window break," Erik whispered. Madeline shook her head.

"No, it's just Raven getting home late. She's been out with Azazel."

"How do you know?"

"I can smell her. And I can smell him on her," she said matter-of-factly.

"All the way out here?" he questioned. She nodded.

Erik felt a wolfish smile spreading across his face.

"Do you want to see what else you can do now?"

* * *

The next few hours were the best of Maddy's life to date. In spite of everything awful that happened afterwards, she would always look back on them with an unrepentant pleasure, which could sustain her even through the darkest times. If you had asked her whether it had been worth what followed, she would have denied it – but nonetheless, the freedom and the joy she felt for that all too brief time, exploring her new powers with the one person she knew unequivocally approved of them, was not something she could have given up, not for anything in the world.

By common consent, they had moved away from the mansion, out into the wooded walkways surrounding the grounds. Once they were out of the possible earshot of even the most sophisticated mutant ear, Madeline was at last free to let rip – and Erik was the last person to stand in her way.

Madeline had spent so much time and effort trying to force her body to reflect her will, trying to boost her underused muscles, trying to become fast, to become strong. She laughed out loud now at the memory, the hours spent so futilely when all this _strength_ had been in her the whole time, just waiting to be set free.

She ran like breathing, jumped so high it was like flying, turned cartwheels and backflips for the sheer joy of it. She felt alive, in a way she'd never imagined – it was as if she'd spent her whole life wrapped in clingfilm, and someone had suddenly torn it away, letting her see, letting her hear, letting her _breathe_. She wound up perched in the branches of a tall tree, just taking in all that her senses offered her. The air on her skin was like the caress of a lover; her sense of smell, always her most important way of mapping out the world, now had an extra dimension of time. She could smell everything, not just what was there – Erik on the ground below, his skin, the sweat under his arms, the mutant blood from the cuts on his hands drying and flaking, the lemon-leather-lusciousness of him; but what had been as well – Azazel and Mystique's combined scents squashed into a bed of wildflowers under a willow tree; and in part what was coming – the thunderstorm beyond the horizon, bearing down on the mansion redolent with the promise of rain.

Dawn had broken about an hour ago. She stood up and dropped lightly from the tree, landed in front of Erik with barely a sound.

He had seemed perfectly content to just stand back and let her test herself, to push her own limits just as far as she pleased, not trying to force her or contain her or direct her to any particular challenge. He seemed to be taking a clean, heartfelt delight in her delight, and in that moment she loved him recklessly for that utter acceptance. She grabbed hold of him impulsively, pulled him into a tight embrace that was mercifully free of the conflicted desire that had undone her the last time.

"_Thank_ you for persuading me to do this, Erik," she whispered.

"Thank you for being persuaded," he replied, then: "Ow." She sprang away as if he was on fire.

"I'm _sorry_! I keep forgetting to be – careful." He shook his head.

"Don't ever apologise for being strong, Maddy. Not to me, or anyone." He took a step back, studied her speculatively. "I wonder just how strong you _are_ like this …" Maddy barely had time to notice the mischievous sparkle in his eyes before he took her legs out from under her with a sweeping kick. In normal circumstances (when, for example, Raven had tried exactly the same move on her) she would have ended up in an undignified heap on the grass. But now, the fall felt like slow motion – it was almost laughably easy to twist around in mid-air and flip back onto her feet, and to knock Erik's own feet from under him. He landed with a grunt in the aforementioned undignified heap, and then huffed out an admiring laugh. She grinned proudly.

"I think the answer to your question is 'strong enough'," she quipped tartly. Erik held up his hands in mock surrender.

"I withdraw the question!" He vaulted lightly back onto his feet, stepped towards her, still smiling. Then quick as blinking, he had her arm twisted up behind her back and was trying to push her to the ground.

What happened next was pure instinct, but none the less enjoyable for that. Madeline bent double, threw the powerfully-built German straight over her head, then flipped herself into the air, landed with her knees on his wrists. He laughed again, maddeningly.

"Very good!" He twisted skilfully, managed to get his elbow locked around her shin. "What is it Raven's always saying?" She struggled free, struck a blow toward his chin which he dodged, her knuckles just grazing his face. "Never let your guard down, not even in your sleep!" They were both grinning like idiots now, shifting into a loose-limbed fighting stance as they sprang apart, appraised one another.

Madeline knew that Erik had grown up fighting; his body was a weapon, all sinew and muscle. What with that, and his metal-bending power, he didn't often encounter an opponent he couldn't easily beat. And she knew how he loved a challenge. Maddy herself was eager for a fight, to find out the full extent of her new power.

Their playful sparring swiftly became earnest as they realised that neither of them had the upper hand. Erik had the experience, his size, his longer limbs. But Maddy's new reflexes and agility, coupled with the strange harmony between her body and her mind, meant that he was soon sweating to keep up with her. She suddenly became aware that he was reaching with his power for an advantage, felt the metal buttons on her jacket become heavy, start pulling her down towards the ground. She tore the jacket open, flung it from her, used his moment of surprise to spring onto Erik, knocking him flat onto his back and pinning him.

Their faces were inches apart, both their chests heaving; as she looked down into his awestruck eyes, she realised that this had been a terrible mistake - just before she made another one, ducking her head to kiss him on the mouth.

* * *

Erik hadn't been expecting the kiss. Later he cursed himself, because he should have been. But in the moment, in the shock of it, the first thing he did was instinctively kiss back.

That was too much for Madeline, who made a desperate sound low in her throat, pushed her tongue into Erik's mouth. His eyes slammed open. _Charles. _This was all wrong.

"Mm!-" he tried to protest, twisting away. She didn't seem to understand, pushed him back down with the length of her body. Jesus God, she was so _strong_. Her mouth clung to his hungrily. Erik gathered all his strength and pushed her away, scrambled back to his feet.

"Madeline, stop!"

She turned her blood-red eyes to him, and he could see she hardly understood the words. He had seen that look only in the eyes of someone drunk or drugged or in the throes of passion. She was beautiful, he realised, but in an abstract way that was entirely unhelpful at the present moment.

He opened his mouth – but to say what? – when her expression altered utterly. Where there had been desire was suddenly a single-minded focus. Her eyes narrowed, her nostrils flared, and every angle of her body suddenly seemed honed to a single point. She sank forward into a predator's crouch. Erik felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

"Maddy-"

Without warning, she suddenly vaulted over his head, a smooth, clean leap that saw her land a good six feet away from him. Without a moment's pause she streaked away across the lawn. Erik sprinted straight after her, a blade of unease twisting in his gut. Some instinct told him that her flight had nothing to do with what had just happened between them, that she was being driven by some other need. Or drawn by it.

* * *

Charles was having the most appalling morning he could remember for a long time, and it was showing no signs of improvement. He suppressed a yawn, wishing his powers extended to being able to transform the prospective pupil's parent he had forgotten was visiting today (at half past _eight_? What was the woman, mad?) into a pot of Earl Grey and a pillow.

He'd had enough to worry about that morning _before_ she had arrived. Erik hadn't come to bed the night before, and although Charles knew his lover was a grown adult, who could choose to sleep or not as he chose, he couldn't help but fret. Moreover, Hank had woken him from his restless slumber with the alarming news a window in the lab had been shattered. Probably just some students horsing around over-enthusiastically; but Charles was disappointed that the culprit hadn't come to him to confess. Trust was everything to Charles, and he'd hoped the children had all come to understand they could confide in him without fear.

He dragged his attention back to the woman, who was asking something about sports facilities. But something at the edge of his awareness was trying to get his attention. An unfamiliar mind. Charles heard his mouth saying something enthusiastic about racquetball, whilst his inner consciousness was reaching out, feeling for-

_Hunger. A bone-deep, driving hunger, and a maddening _smell_ that promised to feed that hunger, have to find it, have to-_

Charles jumped. The mind wasn't just alien to him, it was barely coherent – a jumbled mass of power and desire, and under that a driving instinct sharp and simple as a knife. And _close_. He spun round in his chair, and saw Madeline standing at the bottom of the stairs, sunk into a half-crouch, her blood-red eyes fixed on the oblivious woman's neck. Charles could feel the need in her, to leap, to bite, to drink-

_Have to, have to, HAVE TO-_

_**Madeline.**_

Charles shouted her name into the dark vortex of hunger her mind had become, and somehow it got through. Her eyes flicked from her prey to him, and something desperate in them connected for a moment.

_Charles, _help _me, please!_

He had no time to ask permission. Charles plunged into the girl's mind, pushing through the hot layer of hunger into her recent memories, saw everything, the blood, the change, the fight, the kiss.

The kiss.

Erik.

The shock pulled Charles briefly out of her head, and that was all that was required for the hunger to get the upper hand again. Just as Erik burst panting through the door, Madeline's muscles bunched as she prepared to spring-

_**Go to sleep now**_**. **

Madeline crumpled at the foot of the staircase. The woman, who had turned around as the door slammed open, stared at her in consternation.

"Ah, Mr Lensherr," Charles said smoothly. "Would you be so kind as to take Madeline back to the sickbay, please, and get Dr McCoy to look her over? He did try to warn her she shouldn't be up and about so soon after the flu." He smiled suavely at the confused woman. "Please, don't worry yourself. A bit of summer flu going around, you know how kids pick up every bug going – but she's past the infectious stage, or Hank never would have let her out of his sight. She'll be just fine. Now, let me show you our Library next."

* * *

Erik had picked Madeline up; she wasn't just asleep or passed out, he could tell – she was far too limp, her breath barely there, her pulse weak. He called out helplessly to Charles's mind.

_Do as I said, Erik. I'll be along as soon as I can get away. I've had to put Maddy in a coma – she was too strong to neutralise any gentler way._

Erik could feel the hostility from Charles's mind, stinging like a whiplash to Erik's soul. And under that, fear and bewilderment, a stream of images from Maddy's mind, the blood, the change, the fight, the kiss.

The kiss. Erik's eyes widened in horror.

_Charles-_

_Not now, Erik. Please just take her to Hank. _And with that, Charles cut off their mental link. It struck Erik with the force of a slap, and one he knew that he richly deserved. He thought that was the end of it. But as he carried Maddy up the stairs, he heard Charles's voice in his head once more, radiating anger and disbelief.

_My God Erik, what have you _done_?_


	25. Chapter 25

Hank had been hanging upside down from the light fixture, reading _The Lancet_, when Erik burst into the sick bay with Maddy in his arms. Hank was so startled he dropped his journal and lost his grip, falling on his ass on the workbench below. It was testament to Erik's distress he didn't even take the time to sneer.

"Erik?! What the hell?!" Hank pushed a pile of papers from one of the beds, and Erik lowered Madeline's lifeless-looking body onto it. Hank grabbed her wrist, a chill of relief washing through him as he found a thriving pulse. He turned accusingly on Erik.

"What have you done to her?" Erik shook his head.

"It wasn't me, it was Charles. He put her in a coma." Hank fought a creeping sense of unreality. This day was starting to feel more and more like a bad dream – first the broken window, now this. He squinched his eyes shut tight, then opened them again. Erik was still standing there with a guilty, worried look on his face, Maddy was still lying unconscious and white as marble on the gurney.

"What happened? Charles would never do this if it wasn't necessary. Don't pretend you had nothing to do with it." Erik's expression flipped from guilt to anger, and he exploded:

"Quit jabbering at me and just help her, will you? Is she alright?" Hank scoffed.

"As if you care-" then found himself pressed up against the drugs cupboard, Erik's large hands making a game attempt to encircle the young man's massive throat.

"You know nothing about it, understand? _Nothing_. Just do your job, _du misgeburt-_"

"ERIK!" Charles wheeled at speed into the room, seized Erik's arm and yanked him away from Hank. His face was red with the effort, his eyes slits of incandescent fury.

"What the hell is the _matter_ with you? How can you be fighting at a time like this?" He threw Erik's arm from him as if it repulsed him, turned away to face Hank, who stared in shock. Charles _never_ spoke to anyone that, least of all Erik.

"Hank, is she alright? She should be – I just told her brain to go to sleep – but she was so strong, I had to be a lot more forceful than I'd have liked." Hank blinked, approached Maddy and checked her vital signs, pulled up an eyelid to reveal a rolling red eye. He jumped, then turned back towards Charles.

"She's fine, I think. Except – how did this happen? She was better, back to normal, I only saw her yesterday!" Charles nodded, and his jaw clenched angrily. His voice was clipped, each word a bullet of controlled fury.

"Yes, well. It seems that Erik decided his interest in Maddy's abilities entitled him to take risks with her life. They crept up here last night and he made Maddy _drink_ some of the blood you keep in the sick bay. What happened after that is every bit as bad as you'd expect." Hank looked from one to the other, realization dawning.

"You broke the window?" he demanded angrily of Erik. The metal bender shook his head, a sudden gleam coming into his eye.

"No, that was Madeline. Although she took me with her when she jumped through it. She was much stronger this time, Beast, much faster too – and a lot happier. You'd probably have had a heart attack."

"Erik. Shut _up_."

Again, Hank wondered if he was dreaming. Not only was _Charles_, of all people, giving Erik the dressing down he had had coming for, well, _ever_ in Hank's opinion, but Erik seemed to be taking it meekly, bowing his head and retreating into a corner under Charles's withering rage. Charles dismissed the German with a roll of his eyes, then moved towards Madeline's head, put his hands either side of her temples, shut his eyes as he reached out for her mind.

* * *

_Madeline?_

Maddy had been floating in a loose, grey darkness when the quiet voice called out to her. She reached for it, the only solid thing in the ether that was all she could see or feel.

_Charles? Where am I? _The voice came again, gentle, reassuring, and she felt some of her panic begin to recede.

_You're in the sick bay. Don't worry, you're perfectly alright. I've put you into a very deep sleep – I had to, I hope that you understand. But I can wake you up now-_

_NO!_

Her mental cry rang out into the nothingness, and for a moment, she was terrified she'd frightened Charles's voice away. Then it sounded in her mind once again, sounding confused.

_Madeline? Why don't you want to wake up?_

_The blood. The blood is still in me, isn't it? I'm still – changed. _Charles hesitated, then replied.

_Yes. But Madeline, it will pass. Just like it did before, although Hank thinks it may take longer this time. Something about the way you – ingested the blood this time seems to have increased your powers – it stands to reason they'll be longer-lasting too._

Madeline felt the strange sensation of wanting to cry without the eyes to do it.

_Please don't wake me up. I'm not safe. I can't be trusted, I can't control myself. If you let me wake up when I'm like this, I'm scared I'll do something dreadful. Please don't._

She felt the memory of her barely averted assault on the woman pass from her mind into his, felt also – with a wave of shame – the hunger licking up again at the memory of the scent of her blood. And that hunger reminded her of the other, of kissing Erik, of _forcing _Erik to kiss her. Erik, who belonged body and heart and soul to Charles.

_Please, Charles, please, I didn't MEAN to-_

_Hush, my dear. I know. I know you never wanted to hurt me. I 'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you, love. Did you think I didn't know you were in love with him?_

Madeline didn't reply. She wondered if it was possible to die of shame. Almost hoped that it was. But Charles's mental voice held no accusation, only gentle pity.

_I am a telepath, you know – I think I knew it before you did. It's one of the reasons I've been so keen for you to put off exploring these new powers of yours – I thought it would be easier on you once you had reconciled your feelings for Erik. I'm so sorry that he has manipulated them to encourage you to do this before you were ready, without my help or Hank's. It was unforgiveable._

Madeline thought to protest Erik's innocence, but sensed that it would only make things worse. And after all, who was she to defend Erik to Charles? The two of them shared an understanding that went deeper than she could ever fathom. It was pure presumption to try and insert herself into that bond, to try and protect it. And rank hypocrisy into the bargain. So she kept her peace on that score.

_Charles. Will you help me? I don't want to be some sort of monster! _

Charles projected a soothing wave of calm into her mind.

_Of course I'll help you, Madeline. You will control these powers, I promise you. When YOU are ready to. Now are you sure you don't want me to wake you up? Mrs Murdock has left the premises; you'll be quite safe._

Madeline thought of waking up; of having to face Hank; to face Erik. Her whole being flinched away from the thought.

_No. Please no. Let me go back to normal first, please. I'm too scared to wake up._

She heard Charles sigh sadly.

_Very well, my dear. Please try to rest, and not to worry. Everything is going to be alright._

She focused on the soothing sound of his words, rather than the meaning. After all, they both knew that it wasn't true.

* * *

Charles withdrew from Madeline's troubled mind, his heart aching with compassion for her pain, her guilt, her fear. All of it so unnecessary. He turned to Hank wearily.

"She doesn't want to wake up. She's frightened of what she might do. I'm afraid she encountered a human visitor in the entrance hall, and her desire for human blood overwhelmed her rather. Nothing happened, but she wants to stay under until the effects have worn off again. Will you please monitor her, let me know when it's safe to bring her round?"

Hank nodded dumbly, clearly still confounded by the bizarre course the day was taking. Charles patted him on the elbow encouragingly, then turned reluctantly to face Erik.

His lover had come out of his corner at Charles's last words, and Charles was infuriated to see he was looking somewhat disapproving. _By God, that man has brass bollocks to criticize me for doing what must be done, for clearing up the mess he's made!_ Charles fixed the metal bender with a steely gaze.

"We need to talk, Erik. Now. With me please."


	26. Chapter 26

Erik trailed Charles into the study, shut the door as the telepath rounded on him, his mouth white with tension, his eyes blazing fury.

"Erik, how could you do this? How COULD you?"

The betrayal in Charles's voice cut Erik to the quick.

"Charles, I'm so sorry. It was a horrible mistake, should never have happened."

Charles's jaw relaxed a little, and he looked slightly mollified. Erik, encouraged, took a step forward.

"You saw how it was, it all happened so fast – I should have pulled away sooner, but I was just so-" Charles rolled his eyes, exploded:

"Oh for God's sake, Erik, I wasn't talking about the kiss, I don't care about the bloody kiss!"

Erik blinked quizzically. He had been prepared to humble his pride, to beg if that was what it took – after all, that was no more than Charles deserved. Erik had broken faith with him in that second of shock when he had let himself kiss Madeline. How could that be forgiven so easily? And if it was, why was Charles still incensed?

"She wasn't in her right mind, would never have crossed that line if she had been. And what you and I have is more than physical fidelity – or it is for me, in any case. It's love that matters to me, Erik, not denial, I told you that after Cuba. Or had you forgotten?"

Erik hadn't. In the aftermath of Charles's injury, when he had become aware of all the capacities that he had lost, Charles had made it clear that if Erik were to seek release elsewhere, then he would understand. At the time, Erik had simply dismissed the question out of hand, certain that he would never want anything or anyone but Charles. And they had found ways to ensure that neither of them wanted for physical pleasure. Erik shrugged, not knowing what to say.

Charles was far from done talking, however.

"You know full well that wasn't what I meant. How could you put her through this, after everything that we agreed?"

Ah, so it really wasn't the kiss then. It was the blood. Erik sat down on the sofa, decided that the only way forward would be to just brazen it out. He lounged backwards, and adopted an exaggeratedly reasonable tone.

"I never agreed to anything, Charles. You talked at me, and as usual you only heard what you wanted to. I didn't mean to 'put her through' anything; I'm just trying to help her to become what she really is."

Charles threw up his hands.

"I just had to put her in a coma – at her own request I might add – because she was about to KILL that woman! She's completely out of control, and she's traumatised! How could you be so irresponsible?"

Erik sat up. He was willing to take his medicine for that moment of weakness with the girl, but he wasn't going to sit and be harangued for consequences that were none of his doing.

"I didn't know that was going to happen-"

"EXACTLY! You had no idea what would happen to her, but for the sake of satisfying your own bloody-minded curiosity you put her in mortal danger!"

Erik didn't think he'd ever seen Charles so angry, heard him shout like this. He felt his own anger rising, decided to give in to it, preferring its familiar burn to the sick shot of shame that had accompanied Charles's last words. He leapt to his feet, raised his voice.

"It wasn't about me, Charles, damn it! It's about HER. She has so much potential, and you don't want her to unlock it just because it frightens you!"

Charles went white with rage.

"How dare you?" he whispered. Erik shrugged negligently, and Charles's mouth twisted. He smacked the arm of his chair angrily. "I am trying to HELP these children, Erik, all of them. You just want to turn them into weapons!"

"And you just want to turn them into humans, when they're NOT, Charles!" Erik retorted. "Admit it – you're afraid of what she's capable of!"

"Bloody right I am, and so should you be! You didn't see inside her head like I did. Under all that fear and confusion, that was the mind of a predator. Acute, remorseless, joyful in the hunt…" Charles trailed off, his anger evaporating into something like awe. "It's like a drug to her, Erik. There's no telling what atrocity she might commit if she sets that side of herself free."

Erik crouched down in front of Charles's chair, gripped the arms as he leaned over his lover. He was struggling to control himself, and his words came out like bullets, each one making Charles wince.

"Charles, listen to yourself. You said it yourself, she's a predator. And do you notice how instinctively she chose her prey? Not me; not you, though both of us were close to hand. She didn't attack her own kind, Charles. She preyed on the inferior species, the species she was born to feed upon. She attacked the human. Just the human."

Charles jerked the chair back, knocking Erik's hands from the arms. He turned an incredulous look on Erik.

"I can't believe I'm hearing this. She is not _'the human'_. Her name is Joyce Murdock; she has a mutant son who she wants to send here, and three other children who she adores. She likes historical novels, and swing music. She dances in the kitchen when nobody's home. She isn't anyone's _prey_, Erik, she's a person!"

Erik took a step back, stung by Charles's withdrawal. He rolled his eyes.

"For God's sake Charles, I know that. I'm not saying you should have let Madeline kill the woman just because that's her nature. But you have to admit that's what it is! Put the ethics aside for a moment: you can't deny the evolutionary step Maddy represents. She's made to feed on human blood; not animal, or mutant – _human_ blood. It makes her stronger, faster, better. Have you ever seen her look so full of life? So _right_? You know that this is who she's meant to be!"

Erik paused for breath, saw Charles's expression harden. He turned away from Erik, looking from the window out across the grounds.

"I don't have to listen to this. Madeline needs help. She needs to learn to control those urges, to let her better nature-"

Erik felt some dark emotion building in his chest as he stared at Charles's back, heard him martialing all his rhetorical weapons in the service of his denial, his cowardice. Erik did something he had never done before – he seized the handles of Charles's wheelchair, forced him to turn around and face Erik.

"You can't admit it even now, can you? You can't control them all forever, Charles. You have to let them become what they are!"

Charles stared at him in wounded disbelief.

"Sometimes, I listen to you and I think that you don't know me at all. What do you think I'm trying to do here? What do you think this bloody place is for? I want them to be happy, to be safe!"

Charles's voice broke on the last word, and the anger in Erik collapsed into frustration, protectiveness, and an unidentifiable sense of loss. He stepped backward, pressed his fingertips into his eyelids.

"I know you do. I know. But you think the best way to achieve that is to teach them to suppress their abilities, to blend in and assimilate, perhaps let themselves off the leash now and again to perform some helpful service for mankind, to earn a pat on the head from their oppressors. Admit it, at least to yourself, to me: you're _scared_ of mutants, as scared as the humans are, you always have been."

Charles flinched as if Erik had struck him a blow, then gasped, literally speechless with outrage. Erik pushed on, heedless of everything but the need to say his piece after so long bottling it up.

"You're scared of what our powers mean, inevitably – the extinction of humankind. The human in you is so strong you even scare yourself – that's why you'll never be half the force for good you could be, because you're too afraid to use even a fraction of the power you have-"

Erik stopped not because he had finished, but because he could no longer move his mouth. Or anything else. He couldn't even blink, could only stare disbelieving at Charles, who was holding his fingers to his head, gazing at Erik with an expression he had never seen in his lover's face before.

This wasn't the Charles that Erik knew - the gentle, kind professor who laughed and kissed and made love with a tenderness that had been Erik's comfort and his joy. This was a powerful telepath who could make Erik do anything that he wanted; anything at all.

Panic bloomed in the German's chest, the queasy terror only powerlessness could provoke in him. He heard Charles's voice in his head, the voice of a stranger, cold, vibrating with barely controlled fury.

_Is this the power you would have me use to fight our cause, Erik? Is this the person you want me to be? _

The moment stretched out for an eternity, and then Charles released his hold on Erik's mind. The metal bender sucked in a lungful of air; he knew that his face nakedly revealed the full measure of the shock and betrayal he felt. Charles's face was no less shocked; he was chalk-white, his red lips trembling. He put his head in his hands.

"Get out Erik. If you don't get out now, I may do something we would both regret."

The younger man's voice was no longer angry or remote. He sounded just like Erik felt – hollow; heartbroken. Erik took a step forward, instinctively – then turned on his heel and let himself out. He let the door shut silently and then, standing on the other side of it, allowed the bitter tears to fall, listened to Charles begin to sob in the study. Every sinew of Erik's heart strained at the sound, yearned to go back and comfort his lover – but a cold, dead weight lay heavy on his chest, wouldn't allow the feeling to escape. He couldn't go back. There was nothing left to say.

* * *

_**AN: **__I'm so sorry I had to do that! Really hard to write, but it had to be done. I'm afraid it's all going to get a bit sad from this point, but hang with me - a happy ending is still on the cards, and hopefully some drama and fluff along the way! How are people feeling about Raven & Azazel? I have a plan to follow then for a while, so let me know what you think about what I'm doing with that. Thank you SO much everyone who has reviewed and favourited, it makes my day whenever I get a notification that someone is enjoying my story :)_


	27. Chapter 27

Maddy awoke reluctantly, was instantly assailed by the overwhelming power of her senses. She shut her eyes tightly, tried to hold her breath, to block out the scents of the sick bay, the sound of the rain that spattered the windows outside.

_This isn't right. Charles promised to keep me asleep until the blood had worn off. _

Charles. She could smell him, warm wool and faded leather and … whiskey? Her eyes snapped open.

He was sat next to her, slumped over in his chair, red-eyed and guilty-looking.

"I'm sorry," he said as soon as she focused on him. "I had to wake you up. I'm sorry, sorry."

He was slurring his words; he was, she realized, completely drunk.

"What time is it?" she asked. He squinted blearily at his watch.

"Coming up to midnight?" he answered, uncertainly. "I left you under for as long as I could, but – Madeline, I need your help." His voice broke on the last words.

She sat up sharply.

"Charles, what's happened? What's wrong?"

He shook his head, looked at her with eyes glossed with tears.

"Erik. We had a fight, an awful fight, and I – I made a terrible mistake. He says he's leaving. Now."

Madeline went cold. _No. No. He can't. _The dread went deeper than any she'd ever known. She wondered for a moment if it was her emotion at all, or one she was picking up from Charles's mind. She knew when he was as drunk as he was now, he sometimes lost control of his power, let his feelings bleed into others around him. And he looked just like Maddy felt – bereft.

"He can't leave. He can't. Where would he even _go_? He can't just go off all alone!"

Charles shrugged helplessly. "I don't know! He won't talk to me anymore. He just said that he had to go. He's put that bloody helmet on, so I can't see what he plans, I can't make him _listen-_"

"What helmet?"

"It's something Shaw had made before he died, to keep me out of his head. Erik kept it after Cuba, but he's never used it, never!" The hurt in Charles's voice lacerated Madeline's soul. Then she realized something terrible.

"Charles. The fight – were you fighting about me? About what happened?" His eyes confirmed it. She drew in a sharp breath, but Charles was shaking his head.

"It started that way, but Maddy, it's not your fault. It had been a long time coming; it goes much deeper than just your powers, goes to the heart of the destiny of our species. We've been avoiding it for too long, out of love – or fear. What happened today just brought matters to a head, that's all." His face suddenly fractured. "And I made such an unholy mess of things! But he can't leave me, Madeline, he can't. I don't know how to carry on without him here!"

Then Charles – the urbane, paternal, elegant Charles - began sobbing broken-heartedly. Maddy acted on instinct, pulled his head down on her breast, stroked his hair, patted soothing circles on his back. He took her hand, looked up pleadingly at her with unfocused, red-rimmed eyes.

"Please talk to him. You're the only person I think could persuade him to stay."

* * *

Erik was pulling shut the zip on his holdall when Madeline knocked and entered his room.

He had been saddened to realize how little he possessed when you excluded everything Charles had given him over the past year – clothes, books, small but significant gifts that Erik had treasured as much for the thought that had gone into them as for the items themselves.

All these he had not packed. Couldn't. He knew the only way he could go through with this was to leave every memory behind, to shut every door in his heart that could lead back to Charles, to the mansion, to the life they should have had together.

He had taken only one memento – the bullet he had pulled from Charles's spine that dreadful morning on the Cuban beach. It was bent and blackened, and still had a tiny flaking of Charles's blood on its snub-nosed tip. He put it in his pocket, without letting himself think about why. Then Maddy had appeared.

Even in Erik's desolation, he took the time to admire the changes human blood had wrought in her. Her every move seemed gilded with grace; her speed and silence testified to the comfort she felt in her own skin; her carmine eyes glittered like rubies in the lamplight. But her mouth twisted down when she looked at him.

"Nice hat," she said, and Erik shrugged self-consciously. He hated everything about the helmet – the stupid shape, the weight of it, the fact that it had been Shaw's. Wearing it felt wrong, like putting on the dead man's suit – unclean. But it was a means to an end. He still went cold remembering how utterly Charles had been able to control him. He could never allow anyone to have such power over him. Never again.

"Where are you going?" she asked, indicating the bag.

"I have to leave. Try to understand. Charles was right in the end – he near as damn it always is. He told me a long time ago that I couldn't hang a whole life on love – that sooner or later I'd have to find a way to live a life that was true to the person that I am." He heaved a sigh, thinking about that day, lying in one another's arms trying to find a way forward.

"I've tried to find that life with Charles, but I can't. I don't belong here. I never did. I see that now; I have to do what I believe is right, for me, for my people. I have to go, to take the war to them, before they gain the means to annihilate us. Because they will try. They'd be fools not to, once they realize that we were born to exterminate them. You're _proof_ of that, Madeline. What you are, the predator you are – it's beautiful. It's meant to be."

She was shaking her head, biting her lip. Her red eyes were glossing with pinkish tears, and she made no attempt to wipe them as they fell.

"No. No. That isn't what it means. I don't know what these powers are, what they are for. But I refuse to be your excuse to run out on Charles, on all of us. Don't you dare try and make this about me." He turned away abruptly, guilt exploding in his chest at her words. He forced down the memory of Charles in here a short while ago, drunk, desperate, pleading with him to stay, begging for forgiveness. As if it had ever been as simple as that.

As though she was reading his mind, Maddy suddenly yelled:

"How can you walk out on him like this, now? How can you not forgive him for whatever mistake he made, after all that he has forgiven you?"

Erik shook his head angrily, punched the wall.

"It's not about forgiveness! I could forgive Charles anything. But I can't _trust_ him any more!"

The words rang in the air between them, and as he heard them, Erik acknowledged to himself at last the full extent of what he'd lost. To lose the only man he'd ever loved was pain enough; but to have lost the only friend he'd ever truly trusted was so, so much worse. He bit his lip until it bled, hoisted the bag onto his shoulder.

"I have to go now," he rasped, clenching his throat to hold the tears down. She stepped forward fluidly, grabbed his arm.

"Erik, _please_ don't go. He needs you here, we all need you." She took a deep breath, and then looked up at him with the nakedness of her love in her eyes.

"_I_ need you."

He paused, reached out and stroked her face fondly with the back of his hand. She shut her eyes and trembled at his touch.

"You don't need anything, or anyone at all, _Süßling_. All that you need is to accept yourself – to let yourself become what you were born to be." She shook her head, the pinkish tears falling from under her closed lids; she leaned her face into his cupped hand. He brushed the tear tracks away with his thumb, realized suddenly how much he would miss her after he had gone. A mad thought came to him.

"You could always come with me, you know. I have a war to fight; I'm going to need an army. I could use your strength, your loyalty. We could do so much together." She opened her eyes, looked up at him with tragic yearning. He took her face between his hands, looked into her eyes searchingly. "You're so _strong_, Madeline. Now tell me: are you ready to be brave?"

She held his gaze for a long moment, and he felt in that moment the full burden of her love, love he knew he could never return, and hadn't earned, but was taking full advantage of to get his own way. Shame blossomed in his chest again. He was almost relieved when she closed her eyes finally, sighed, and stepped away from him. She shook her head.

"I can't. I can't leave Charles. Not now. You must see that. He's going to need all the friends that he has to get through this. And Hank and I are still hopeful that we might find a treatment that could work, that could help him to walk again. I can't come with you, Erik. Not now. Not yet." Her voice was low but resolved, and only a tremble as she said his name gave any indication of what the words had cost her. He sighed, stepped past her to the door, clasping her shoulder one last time as he went by. He paused in the hallway, looked back at her.

"When you're ready – if you ever change your mind – come look for me." She nodded jerkily, but didn't turn around. "By then, you'll know where to find me," he said, in such an ominous tone she spun around to ask him what he meant. But Erik had already gone.

* * *

Charles watched him from a high window as he left, crunching up the gravel path as the intensifying rain splattered off his leather jacket, streamed down the helmet. Although Charles couldn't call out to his lover's mind, some sixth sense seemed to stop Erik, and he turned to take one last look at the only place he had called home in his adult life. Their eyes met, and Charles put a hand up to the glass, pressed until his fingertips turned white.

_Please. Please, Erik. Please stay._

He mouthed the words as well as thought them, yearning more than anything to reach into the metal bender's mind and _show_ him how sorry he was. But the damned helmet cut him out, cut off the gentle mental link the two of them had shared almost unbroken since the day that they had met.

Erik looked up at Charles for a long moment, with the rain streaking his face. He stood there for so long Charles felt a spark of hope light up his heart. Then Erik set his shoulders, turned his back, and disappeared into the stormy night.


	28. Chapter 28

**AN:**** _Guys, so so sorry for the long break! It has been mental at work. I hope some of you are still with me! I have written a bunch of stuff for way down the line, but for now, bear with me while I continue to demolish the little family I've built up *sobs* It has to be done, for the story! _**

* * *

Raven woke up to the sound of her alarm clock, and wished she hadn't. The routine her days had fallen into in the last few weeks was not one anybody sane would open their eyes to with any real enthusiasm.

First, before she ate or even washed her face, she had to go in search of Charles – to find wherever he had fallen asleep or unconscious the night before, and either wake him up or, if that proved to be impossible, manhandle him to his bedroom before any of the other inhabitants of the house had woken. Then she would clear up whatever mess he might have made the night before on his increasingly drunken circuits from study to wine cellar to liquor cabinet. Later, she would try to persuade her brother to get up, to shave, to wash, to dress, to take at least a few of his classes (the only thing that seemed to give him any real pleasure). To do anything, in short, other than stare out of his study window, dwelling on the memories that inevitably sent him back to the numbing refuge of alcohol.

Eventually Raven would hand Charles over, with a guilty sense of relief, into Madeline's care, who would watch over him as late into the night as she could, until he demanded to be left alone. Raven would sneak out of the mansion and wait for Azazel, allow him to take her away, make her forget, as only he knew how. The irony of her compulsion did not escape her – she and Charles weren't so different after all; it was just that her drug of choice had less of an impact on her physical health.

This time she eventually tracked Charles down to the greenhouse just off the kitchen, his cheek resting in the soil next to a leggy tomato plant. She patted him lightly on the other cheek until he opened his eyes, and gave her a smile of such singular sweetness she almost burst into tears.

"Morning, my dear," he mumbled, spat out a bit of mud that had been clinging to his lower lip and somehow got inhaled as he spoke. She wiped his face clean tenderly, let he hand linger on his bristly cheek.

"Morning, jackass," she replied. She crouched down next to him as he struggled into a sitting position, made a desultory attempt to straighten his rumpled clothes. Raven wished, not for the first time, that Charles _did_ get hangovers – surely if he'd had even a fraction of the clangers he had earned practically nightly since Erik left, he would think twice about reaching straight for the bottle again the second reality stopped being fuzzy round the edges. Then again, perhaps not. He was already suffering enough; what difference would a headache make?

She sank back on her heels and sighed.

"This is getting out of hand, Charles. I know you're hurting. But this isn't helping. Anyone." She almost regretted opening her mouth as his face suffused with guilt at her rebuke.

"I know, I know. I know you're all worried about me. I'm truly sorry. I'm trying, I am. But I can't_ sleep_, Raven. I go to bed like Maddy begs me to, but I just lie there listening to the world, all that suffering, all that pain, until it nearly drives me mad, hoping to catch a glimpse of Erik's mind…" He broke off, bit his lip, his hand instinctively closing around the neck of the empty bottle on his lap. Raven quickly put her hand over his.

"He'll be OK Charles. You know he will. He's a survivor." Charles nodded.

"I know he is, love. I know. It's just… he could do so much more than just survive. He had a life here. With me. With us. And I ruined all that for him."

Raven's expression hardened.

"Charles, you made a mistake. Erik had a choice. He could have chosen to forgive you like you forgave him, to trust you. He chose wrong."

She felt very conflicted about Erik leaving, and she instinctively took shelter in the most straightforward of her emotions – anger. She was, obviously, furious about what his abrupt departure was doing to Charles. She was angry at the fact he'd left the rest of them to clear up the mess. But she was also horribly hurt – that he hadn't tried to take Raven with him.

Not that she would ever have abandoned Charles. But she and Erik had always been of one mind on the mutant-human conflict. He knew she would have had his back if he had ever decided to defy Charles's timorous strictures, go on the offensive. And if he was planning on fighting a war, he couldn't do it all by himself – he could have used her skills. So why had he just turned his back on her without a second thought? OK, she hadn't been there when it all went down; but he could have waited. Or he could have called since. He could have at least _asked_.

_He asked Madeline_.

She tried her best to squash the thought. She knew that she was letting her envy of Hank's feelings for Maddy get mixed up with her sense of betrayal by Erik. And she knew the younger girl didn't deserve any of it. She had enough to worry about right now, with the question of her strange new powers still hanging like a storm cloud over the mansion, and her unshakeable conviction that the argument between Erik and Charles, and Erik's subsequent departure, were all her fault. Charles had made every effort, in his periodic moments of sobriety, to try and disabuse her of that notion, and Maddy pretended to believe him – and Charles pretended to believe that she believed. They were all walking on eggshells at the moment, Raven reflected grimly, no-one questioning anybody's façade closely, all too aware of the mess of difficult emotions writhing beneath the surface. Raven shook her head, then slapped Charles firmly on the knee.

"Come on then, Jack Kerouac. Let's get you cleaned up and halfway presentable – you've got that meeting with those people from the Educational Testing Service this afternoon-" but Charles was shaking his head.

"I cancelled the meeting. I can't face it just now Raven. To be honest, the thought of the first term beginning next month is enough to make my blood run cold. All those people, so much to do…" he trailed off, and Raven tried not to notice him weighing the bottle in his hand again. He spoke again, very low. "I always thought Erik would be here to help me carry the load." Raven sighed, pulled him into a rough embrace.

"I'm here, Charles. I can help you carry it. So can Hank, and Alex, and Sean. We're a team, remember? We're all right here with you, no matter how alone you feel right now."

* * *

Maddy had picked the post up from the end of the long drive as she was returning from her run. She was intrigued to find four manila envelopes with typewritten addresses, two of which had been redirected several times. She handed them out at the breakfast table to Alex, Sean and Hank, tucking the one addressed to Charles into her pocket to give to him later. Each man reacted differently upon opening the letter. Hank pushed his glasses up his nose and looked grave; Alex folded his up carefully and put in in the inside pocket of his jacket; and Sean scrunched his up into a ball and threw it scornfully across the room into the sink with an oath.

Maddy fished to soggy missive from the washing up and carefully opened it out. "'You are required hereby to register for Selective Service...' what's this?" Sean sneered.

"This is Uncle Sam ordering us to sign up to fight and die for people who would prob'ly burn us all as witches if they knew what we could do. And not even to protect our own country – just to screw around in someone else's civil war a coupla thousand miles around the world." He added a few choice suggestions about what Uncle Sam could do with their registration, until Alex slammed his fist down on the table in frustration.

"God damn it, Sean! Shut up, will ya? Just shut up. Just because you're a peacenik pothead drop-out, doesn't mean we all agree with you."

Sean's mouth dropped open. He and Alex were like brothers; they teased each other mercilessly, roughhoused and made more trouble between them than all the children combined – but they never argued, not really.

"You're not signing up for this shit?" he asked, incredulous. Alex nodded firmly.

"Of course I am, and so are you. For one thing, we've damn well got to – it's the law. For another, it's our duty as citizens of this country – being a mutant doesn't make us any less American. I thought that was the whole point of this place."

Sean didn't have much of an answer for that, so he merely swore again. Alex grinned, trying to lighten up.

"It probably won't even ever come to anything anyway. JFK's not an idiot, he's seen action – he knows what's achievable on the ground and what's not. He'll keep on throwing money at Vietnam, maybe send in some spooks to screw things up a bit, but he won't risk a full-blown war."

The rest of those assembled stared at him. To call the laser-thrower 'a man of few words' would be an understatement; him holding forth on any subject without cracking a joke for more than thirty seconds was almost unheard of. Alex blushed like a sunset.

"My dad was in the army, alright? He'd talk about stuff on the news, I paid attention. And he didn't raise me or my brother to welch out of signing up." And with that, he stood up and left the room.

Sean whistled, reached out for the marmalade.

"Well who knew we had our very own toy soldier in the house?" The redhead's levity rang somewhat false – he was obviously rattled, both by the letter and Alex's reaction. "What about you Blue?" he asked Hank, trying to cover his discomfiture. "You ready to do your bit for mom and apple pie?"

"Sean, shut up," said Maddy distractedly. She had just realized why Hank was looking so grim. Signing up for selection was one thing; but suppose Hank was drafted, had to report for duty? How would the US military react when seven feet of blue-furred scientist turned up at the assessment center? Even the best case scenario didn't bear thinking about.

Sean finished spreading his toast and pushed back his chair.

"Everyone's very tense these days, man! You all need to chill out. If anybody needs me, I'll be in the rec room."

After he'd gone, Maddy went and sat beside Hank, patted his arm.

"Alex is right. I know there's a lot of noise about Vietnam right now, but you shouldn't worry – it's so far away, it doesn't really have anything to do with us. There isn't going to be a real war; you won't get drafted."

Hank didn't respond. He just kept staring at the letter as if it were a grenade that might go off in his hand any moment. She took it out of his hand, put it behind the teapot.

"Don't borrow trouble, Hank. God knows we've got enough of our own already." He blinked at her, then nodded.

"You're right. I know you're right. How _is_ Charles?" Madeline sighed.

"I guess I'm just about to find out – I've got a date with him this afternoon to try out some control techniques, to see if he can help me manage my impulses when I've had some blood."

Hank frowned.

"Do you really think that's a good idea?"

Maddy almost laughed. Hank was not one of nature's diplomats; she had never heard anyone ask a question in a way that made it clearer what their own answer to it would be.

In truth, she didn't know if it was a good idea or a terrible one. She had thought long and hard before accepting Charles's offer to help her explore her powers safely. She had come close, a hundred times, to just turning her back on all of it – the blood, the strength, the speed, the joy, the hunger. It was all too much, too strange, too much like something out of a bad Hammer horror. She had lived her whole life without these powers. They brought a host of questions and dilemmas with them; and most of all, it had been her reckless exploration of them that had led to Charles and Erik falling apart. Who knew what else she might bring crashing down if she carried on down that road?

So much for the con column. In the pro, there was nothing except for the fact that she could not get the memory of how the blood had made her _feel_ out of her head. To be so strong, so _free_… she shivered even now, remembering. And then there was Charles. If anyone had reason to advise her to let it alone, he did. Instead, he was encouraging her to try and find a way to live with her powers.

"If you repress something, it tends to re-emerge in unexpected ways," he had said. "And I don't want to make the same mistake with you that I did with Raven – trying to get her to be something that she's not just to be safe. If I've learned anything from E-" at this point his eyes had widened in horror as he almost said the name that was forbidden between them. "From… everything," he continued eventually, "it's that you can't just ignore difficult things and hope it will go away. If there's something not right, it'll only get better if we confront it and resolve it. These powers are a part of who you are; what matters is that you don't let them control you. And that works both ways – letting your fear of them prevent you from exploring this aspect of yourself is allowing them to control you as much as giving yourself up to the impulses it provokes in you. You need to move on from that fear to become who you truly are."

Madeline had looked at him then, rumpled and slightly sour-smelling even early in the evening, bags under his bloodshot eyes. _Physician, heal thyself_, she thought sadly. Charles talked about moving on, but seemed to be stuck himself in an ever-narrowing spiral of misery and regret that nothing anyone could do could halt. It was so characteristic of the man that he would try so hard to help somebody else when he could do nothing to help himself. Still, if it gave him even a crumb of comfort, Maddy wasn't going to be the one to deny him.

Hank was still frowning doubtfully. She tried to smile confidently at him.

"Don't worry so much. Charles will be there the whole time – he'll stop me doing anything bad. And anything that takes his mind off his troubles and keeps him out of the scotch has got to be a good thing, right?"

"Damn right." Raven came into the room, sank down into the chair Sean had vacated. Her leaden tone and the dejected slump of her shoulders said more than words could tell about the difficult morning that she had had. She looked at Maddy with exhausted eyes.

"He's ready for you now, in the study. He actually seems quite keen to get started – let's hope the good mood will last, at least as far as lunch."

Maddy got up and crossed the room, gave the blue girl's shoulders a squeeze. Working together to try and support Charles had brought the two girls even closer, even as Hank's continued attentions toward Maddy threatened to drive an wedge between them. The idea of losing Raven's friendship over Hank's infatuation bothered Madeline more than she cared to think about. She took this opportunity now to leave the two alone, all she could do to try and mend whatever was broken between them. With an encouraging smile for Hank, she left the kitchen, went to find Charles.


	29. Chapter 29

Charles held Maddy's disconcerting red gaze steadily, his gentle mental focus holding her awareness of the power coursing through her veins in check. He was still slightly aghast at the force of it, had to work to stop his own mind getting caught up in the joyous anarchy of sensations Madeline was in thrall to with a pint of human blood in her. _And I was prepared_, Charles thought wonderingly. _That first time, what must it have been like for her…_ He gave Maddy a reassuring smile.

"Ready?" he asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow. She gritted her teeth, nodded.

"Let's find out."

Charles winced, her choice of words conjuring up a painful ghost. It has been an afternoon much like this one not so long ago, when Charles had stood on this terrace with another powerful mutant, trying to help him get control of his powers. Only days later, he and Erik had been fighting side by side, working in the perfect synchrony that had been theirs from the moment they had met – until Erik had chosen to abandon Charles, to put that helmet on. He should have known then and there that whatever it was they had been building together in the days before Cuba was doomed, fractured beyond repair.

_But we _did_ repair it, _a small, stubborn part of his heart insisted. _We could have made it work, we could still make it work if he'd only let me _in_… _Charles tried to quell the thought. He should be concentrating on the matter in hand, on helping Madeline control her powers, not daydreaming about Erik Lensherr. He nodded to her, and then fractionally released his restraining influence on her senses, allowed her to feel the full force of the power in her. She stiffened, gasped, her pupils contracting in shock and then dilating in pleasure. Charles held up a warning hand.

"Madeline. Remember what we talked about. Take control." For a moment, she looked like she was going to spring over the stone balustrade and disappear off into the grounds. Instead, she took a deep, shivering breath, then wrapped her hands tightly around the cast iron of the garden chair she was sitting on. The curlicued metal groaned quietly in the strength of her grip, and leaves of the weathered green paint flaked away, fell onto the terrace. She was quivering with tension, but she was in tenuous control of herself. Charles beamed encouragingly.

"Good. That's very good. Now see if you can relax into it a bit – what did that poor chair ever do to you?"

Very slowly, she unclenched her death-grip on the seat of the chair. She had shut her eyes, and Charles spoke soothingly to her, talked her through releasing each muscle in her body one by one, allowing the power to inhabit her, not overrule her. She softened in the chair, opened her eyes.

"How do you feel?" Charles asked. She smiled tentatively.

"Good. Like – not so raw, you know? I can still feel how strong I am, but it's like – potential, rather than imperative. Like the difference between being a bullet and being the gun."

Charles winced inwardly. The simile was extremely effective, but unfortunately chosen given her audience. He nodded.

"That's good. The thing to do is to identify that feeling of potentiality, of balance, to use it as your base point for exploring your power. When you feel it taking you over, return to that place. You can go a long way from it, but you have to know what and where it is to get back there." She nodded eagerly, stood up. She tipped lithely into a handstand on the balustrade, then froze, eyes closed, concentrating on holding back the surge of power, directing it, taming it to her purpose. She slowly rose up onto her fingertips, her body straight as a lance in the air. Charles could sense how easy this physical feat was for her - the effort lay in not just throwing cartwheels the length of the terrace, just for the sheer joy of doing it. Instead, she lowered herself methodically back onto her palms, then rolled her body down to sit cross-legged on the flat flagstone. She looked at him, a nascent triumph in her eyes.

Charles girded himself, carefully unscrewed the cap of the thermos he had with him. He saw the triumph turn instantly to blank focus, watched as Maddy's body went rigid at the smell of blood. The lash of the hunger in her rocked through his mind as it did through hers, and he instantly clamped down her instinct to pounce. She froze in his power, chest heaving, eyes wild.

_Have to, have to, _have_ to-_

_Madeline, listen to me. You can control this. Remember that place of balance. You are the gun, not the bullet. Remember that, reach for that._

He felt the desperation in her warring with her will to self-control. After an interminable struggle, she met his eyes, shook her head urgently. Sadly, he resealed the flask, released her mind. She curled instantly into a defensive ball, breathing through her mouth to avoid the lingering aroma of blood that through his own nose he couldn't even faintly detect, but which for her filled the air like thick smoke. He could feel the shame and disappointment radiating from her.

"Damn it," she mumbled, burying her face in her arms. Charles wheeled closer, patted her back.

"You will get there. This is just the start. Don't give up on it." She looked up at him, doubt in her carmine eyes.

"Hank thinks this is a bad idea." Charles smiled pensively.

"Poor Hank. He has a brilliant scientific mind, are concerned, but he's got no ability to imagine what it might be like to be somebody else. He sees everything through the prism of his own experience, finds it hard to take the blinkers off. He doesn't want his powers, doesn't want to be different – so he can't understand why you might want your own. Try not to blame him –he only wants what's best for you, my dear. He's extremely fond of you, you know." Maddy blushed.

"I know. And I'm fond of him too – he's like a brother to me." Charles took the hint. He was sad for Hank, but not that surprised – after all, he knew how Madeline felt about Erik. Love like that wouldn't just go away overnight; Charles should know.

He had tried his best to assure Madeline he held no grudge, felt no betrayal – either over her feelings for his former lover, or for the fact they had kissed while Maddy had been under the influence of blood. At first he had been working just as hard to convince himself, but over time he realized it was true. He had been the one to push them together in the first place after all, realizing how alike their experiences were, how much they needed that understanding. How could Charles fail to understand how her feelings had grown, when he was so in love with Erik himself? How could he blame her for what had happened, when he knew just how much she blamed herself?

One of the annoying aspects of being a telepath was that it made it very hard to hold a grudge – if you could _feel_ a person's sorrow, their sincerity, it made it impossible to indulge your own injured feelings at their expense. Charles patted her knee.

"Come on, chin up – we can try again with the blood another time; for now, it's marvelous that you can exert some control, enjoy your powers – in a controlled environment. You're safe here; we're miles from any human beings, and if anyone does come, I'll be here to help you."

Madeline peered up at him from beneath her bangs, smiled tensely. Charles frowned solicitously.

"Still feeling a bit strung out?" She nodded. Charles smiled. "Why don't we go back into my study and relax for a bit with the radio – it's about time for the Shipping Forecast."

Maddy grinned, and the two of them went back through the French doors into Charles's sanctum. Charles poured himself a large measure of brandy as he wheeled passed his desk, and Maddy grimaced but didn't comment. He didn't offer one to her – when she had blood in her, she found normal food and drink disgusting.

Charles approached the wireless while Madeline curled up on the sofa by the fireplace – the late summer had snapped surprisingly swiftly into a chilly grey autumn, and a small fire was smouldering in the grate. Charles pulled up at the hearth and turned the radio on, and both of them smiled as the familiar melody of _Sailing By_ filled the room.

"West Dogger, Northerly veering easterly, 3 or 4. Slight or moderate. Rain or showers, fog patches. Moderate, occasionally very poor-" Suddenly, the soothing voice was cut off. Charles raised an eyebrow, gave the case of the radio a light knock with his knuckles. He was just opening his mouth to say "What on earth-" when a different, serious-sounding English voice cut through the ominous silence.

"We interrupt this broadcast for a special report. A government-run high-security medical facility in the desert of New Mexico in the United States has destroyed, in what is presumed to be a terrorist attack.

"Facts are as yet unclear, although survivors of the attack have reported that at least two assailants 'came out of nowhere', and then 'disappeared', along with several patients at the facility. The US military who responded at the scene have not confirmed or denied any suspicions that the Soviet Union are behind the attack, despite reports from eyewitnesses that one of the attackers was 'Red'.

"A spokesman for the Pentagon said that this was a national security issue, and that the terrorists had access to 'unknown weaponry'. One first response worker interviewed by the BBC described the facility as looking like 'one huge crushed soda can'.

"The attack was swift and brutal, with few survivors – the Pentagon spokesman said that at least fifty government employees were killed in the attack, with a dozen of the facility's patients still unaccounted for. We will bring you more news on this incident as it develops. And now, back to scheduled programming."

This was followed by a sharp beep, and then the previous tranquil voice continued: "Viking in Southwest, moderate becoming good…"

Charles reached out a shaking hand, turned the radio off. He met Madeline's eyes, saw that she had reached the same inevitable conclusion that he had.

"Erik."


	30. Chapter 30

Raven stood with her hands on her hips, tapping her toe irritably into the soil until Azazel appeared with a crack beneath the willow tree that had become their customary meeting place.

He was immaculate and exuberant as ever. Nothing about his appearance suggested that he had been instrumental in a globally significant terrorist mission only hours before. His appearance lied.

Azazel was acutely sensitive to atmosphere (at least as far as Raven was concerned). The second he saw her expression, her confrontational stance, his ebullient smile disappeared.

"You have heard."

"Damn right I have. You better have one hell of an explanation prepared, or you can just poof on out of here right now and never come back."

Azazel shrugged, his tale switching back and forth defensively.

"For what I should explain? Erik and I were rescuers, yes? This is not hospital, Raven. These are not patients. They are prisoners, mutant prisoners, comrades. They are being tortured in that place, you understand? We free them. I have done this many times, saved children from places like this, brought them here to your professor." Raven turned on him.

"Charles told you where to go, who to save, precisely because _you_ could get in and out without anybody getting hurt! You never _killed _people, Azazel! "

Azazel's face went carefully blank at this. Her eyes widened.

"I never said this. This is what professor wants to believe. In these places, always there are guards. And _scientists_." He spat deliberately on the floor as if the word burnt his mouth. "I do not _have_ to kill these people. But if I can, I do. I _like_ to kill them." He turned a challenging gaze upon her. "You _know_ this. You know _me_."

Raven turned away from him, inexplicably unable to meet his eye. She felt, for want of a better word, naked. He was right, after all. She did know what he was – a fighter, a killer. She had tried to pretend to herself she didn't know these things, but she did. She had tried to pretend that side of him didn't excite her, but it did – that he was dangerous, savage, a law unto himself, subject only to his own code.

And if she was honest, his code was her own. Why shouldn't he have killed those he encountered on his mercy missions to asylums, prisons, secret facilities where mutant children were held and harvested for no crime other than being different? How could she condemn him for killing people who would do far worse to him if they got the chance?

As if reading her mind, he added "You would kill them too, if you saw what I see. Cbildren full with wires, with their brains cut up, electrocuted, drowned alive. These are bad people, Raven. They deserve to die - badly. Erik is more soft than me – he says we must kill them quick."

Her anger rekindled, burnt through her confusion like paper. She whipped round on him, eyes narrow with fury.

"How could you not tell me you'd seen Erik? That you were plotting with him to move on the facility? How could you _lie_ to me about something like that?"

He had the grace to look slightly ashamed.

"This is not my choice. I tell him he should speak to you, that we could use you for this, that you are strong enough, that you are ready. But he says no, no, no. He says he won't take you away from professor. That Xavier needs you more. Erik told me not to say."

"And if he told you to jump off a cliff, would you do that too?' she hissed. He looked offended.

"He is a good man. He is clever. Good with plan, strategy. I listen to what he says because of these things. I am not _lackey_," he insisted, with a trace of pride at the unusual word.

It was that touch of pride, even in the midst of their argument, that broke Raven's anger at him. For all his lethal power, his skill at killing, in many ways Azazel was childlike. He dealt with the world simply, at a surface level –a result of the incredible freedom from necessity and exclusion from society his mutations afforded him, she supposed. It wasn't fair to expect him to second-guess Erik – Raven of all people knew how convincing he could be. She let her anger fall squarely where it was owed, at the metal-bender's door.

"That patronizing asshole!" she raged, pacing furiously up and down. "How dare he presume to just parcel me off to Charles's team, just to salve his own conscience, without even asking me!" Azazel let her rant on for a bit longer, clearly broadly in agreement with her theme. When she had run out of cursewords, he drew her to him, kissed her with the passion that never failed to light a fire between them, to bridge the gulf between their worlds. She kissed him back, trying not to think of the fact that the red hands running over her back had been snapping necks only hours before. Then she put her hands on his chest and pushed him gently backward, holding on to his lapels.

"Another time, screw Erik, okay? You _tell_ me. You could have been killed." He began to shake his head, and she cut him off. "Shut up, OK? I know you think you're indestructible, but anybody can make a mistake. You'd bleed the same as anybody else if someone did somehow get a bullet in you. And I'd never hear about it, would I? How long do you expect that I'd wait under this tree, waiting for you, wondering why you didn't come?"

"Would you care, _siniy ved'ma_?"

The coolness with which he said these words made her flinch. She dropped her hands, looked up at him. His scarlet, scarred face had gone blank again, but she knew him well enough by now to know how much the question had cost him. Obviously her ambivalence towards their liaison hadn't gone over his head as she'd imagined.

This would be the moment to have The Talk, she supposed – to tell him that while she needed what he gave her, desperately, especially right now, she didn't love him, couldn't love him, would never love him as it was obvious he loved her. That she loved Hank.

_Hank_. Hank who hated his own mutation, and hers. Hank who had happily cut up Madeline to heal human children. Hank, who spent every night working late trying to manipulate Raven's own DNA to find the 'cure' for their species. Hank, who could barely meet her eye when they met.

She had loved him, loved him so much. Loved his innocence, his sweetness, his brilliant mind, his kind heart, his shyness, and his exquisite mutant gifts. And he had loved her too – until she showed him who she really was.

She bit her lip, looked up at Azazel. Azazel who had never tried to hide – not himself, not his desire for her. Azazel, who was willing to fight for their kind, to kill for them. Azazel who loved her for everything she was, who would never want her to change.

She lay one hand over his heart, cupped his guarded face with the other. She felt him draw a ragged breath before he met her eyes.

"Of course I'd care," she said softly. "You dope."

And when she kissed him now, there was something more than passion. She didn't seek to nail it down or name it – but they both knew it was there.


End file.
